Hostage
by Trust No One
Summary: AU where Hephaistion is taken prisoner by the Persians ahead of the Gaugamela battle. Things are complicated by the fact that Hephaistion has lost his memory due to a head wound. WARNING! CH 5 RATING M for NONCON.
1. Default Chapter

Title: Hostage

Author: Trust No One

Rating: PG-13

Summary: AU where Hephaistion is taken prisoner by the Persians ahead of the Gaugamela battle. Things are complicated by the fact that Hephaistion has lost his memory due to a head wound.

Written for the weekend challenge at the LiveJournal Community of ATGStories for a story where Hephaistion gets amnesia.

Disclaimer: Sadly, they are not mine.

A/N: Not really my usual fare, AU's so go gentle on me.

_Prologue_

It was meant to be no more than a skirmish and yet out of the fifty-odd men that had been sent out, only five returned.

None had wanted to be the one who had to tell Alexander that they had seen Hephaistion fall. Wounded, dead, or taken captive they did not know, even when repeatedly questioned by the King himself. None had seen a man more engulfed by despair even as he had roared his orders. He rode away with only a handful of men, deaf to the other generals' vociferous protests.

'I will not believe he's dead until I've seen his body. And if he is dead, it's only fitting that I should find him myself,' he declared.

They had to know that Alexander would not bow to reason, at least not where it concerned Hephaistion.


	2. One

_One_

He becomes aware of light before the pain strikes him. And when it does, light is not welcome anymore, but blinding and robbing him of all his other senses. For how long it tears mercilessly at him he cannot tell, but the only part of his body that he can feel thus far is his head, which explodes with agony. He prays for unconsciousness to a god he cannot remember and he cannot form enough thought to thank him before he succumbs to darkness once more.

He does not dare open his eyes this time, because even if he cannot recall the searing pain, his subconscious does and thus it thwarts the action before it happens. The pain is still there, although somewhat dulled and he forces his eyes open, in a surge of courage. But light fails to hit him and he stares open-eyed into darkness while fear creeps into his bones.

He cannot see.

By the gods, I've gone blind, he thinks and panic spreads through him unstoppable. He thrashes about like a madman, screaming incessantly until he feels many pairs of arms wrestling him down. A cup is pressed to his lips. In spite of himself, he drinks a gulp, but spits the next out defiantly. It tastes vile. The din of voices around him speak a language he cannot understand and terror grips him anew when he feels his wrists and ankles looped into bonds that now secure him to the bed where he lays.

He screams again - every curse he can think of, even though a part of him suspects that those around him might not understand a word he's saying. The pain in his wounds increases with every word he utters until once more - and gratefully - he is drawn back into the abyss.

The next time he wakes up he knows that he has not lost his sight. The bandage that covers his eyes and head is carefully removed and, although his vision is a little blurred, he can discern a face close to his: a girl with sad painted eyes and long dark hair. With infinitely gentle hands, she presses a wet cloth to what he supposes is a wound to his head, because pain makes itself known immediately and blots out everything else. He almost loses consciousness again, but somehow becomes aware of the soft clucking sound that the girl is making. It soothes him inexplicably and keeps him from passing out.

He remembers his bonds and tests them, tugging gently. The girl scoots away, water bowl flying, letting out a squeal. It is then that he notices the bare torso and he realizes that his care-giver is in fact a young boy, barely in his teens. He tries to say something reassuring, but fails anything above a coarse whisper. He cannot recognize his own voice.

Over what he thinks are the next few days, he drifts in and out of consciousness, his despondence and fear increasing with each waking moment. Every time he awakens he sinks deeper into despair: no matter the effort he cannot even remember his own name. He feels spent and hollowed or enraged and homicidal. Never anything in between.

His only anchor is the boy with painted eyes who tends to his wounds twice a day, gently and efficiently, though in complete silence. He lets the boy go about his business, because more often than not, he feels removed from his own body. The best way - he has decided in a moment of rare lucidity - is to regain his strength before he can begin look for answers. Apart from his head wound, there is a cut on his upper stomach and a gash in his leg, none of which look as dangerous as they are unsightly.

How many days or weeks have I lain here, he wonders.

With signs repeated many times over and with even more exasperation, he has somehow managed to convey the question to the boy who eventually held up his hands, showing his fingers. Eight, he knows now. But whether it is weeks or days, he doesn't know.

It is not long before he can tell the days apart from the nights, when the pain in his wounds becomes bearable enough for him to take account of his surroundings.

A while back, men had come to him in the night and undid his bonds. He had not let on that he was awake but had known that he was too weak to try and take them on. He counted four separate sets of hands severing the ties around his limbs. That led him to think that they did not fear him yet they were wary to come in alone.

The only certainty to him is that he is not on friendly ground. That he is a captive is no longer something he questions. They care for him, feed him and never interrupt his frequent slumbers. Yet he is aware that unseen eyes watch him every moment.

And where in the first days he has enjoyed dreamless, forgetful sleep, he now has violent, vivid visions. Crimson splatters every image of battle and killing and while he fights for his life, he tries to recognize the faces of the other combatants, to acknowledge the difference between friend and foe. He wakes up drenched in sweat, batting at the empty air, screaming a name that over the past few nights has plagued his nightmares. Always the boy is there with a cup of water or soothing hands that massage him back to sleep. But the name lingers in his mind even after slumber reclaims him.

_Alexander._

Could that be his own name, he wonders.

He must be a soldier - that much he had gleaned from the repetitive dreams. It is entirely believable that he has seen long years of battle, because he can count scars, some more recent than others. They adorn his body like the bracelets and chains on his silent attendant.

His surroundings and the moderate luxury he enjoys confirm his suspicion that he must be an officer of sorts. Of what standing, he cannot tell, but it is only logical to assume that he would be one of the high command – of whatever army. A common soldier would have been treated with a lot less care.

But the long days of solitude start to gnaw at him eventually and he craves to talk to someone. He knows that he cannot talk to himself, because even if his language is unknown to most of his captors, there will be at least one who would know it. He wants to keep his afflicted memory from them. Even more, he does not wish to give away any secrets that might still be locked inside that prison that is his mind.

A prison more frightful than the one where he is being kept by his guardians.

For the first time since he regained consciousness, he adventures out of bed. However, when it comes to it, he realizes that putting his whole weight onto his feet proves more strenuous business than he has initially assumed. The instant he stands, light-headedness makes his knees buckle. He keels over only to be caught, with great effort, by the boy, who has appeared out of nowhere. Gritting his teeth against the disgrace of it, he steadies himself slowly, accepting the help and muttering a grudging word of thanks. When he tries to take a few steps and the boy wants to offer his arm for support, he quickly waves him away. It is as far as he would accept aid and the boy withdraws, allowing him his dignity.

He would take those few steps by himself if it kills him. The wound across his stomach, though not overly severe, tugs painfully as he tries to walk and he feels as if his entrails would spill out. But he keeps moving under the boy's watchful eye, until he reaches the tent exit. He pulls it aside and is confronted by a guard, who, after a moment's shock, barks something at another and instantly bars the way out.

Painfully, and nauseated from the effort, he drags himself back to his bed and accepts gratefully the hot drink proffered by the boy. He smiles to himself. The little incursion had not been entirely without gain. Before the guard pushed him gently but firmly back into the tent, he had time to sweep a gaze across what he now knew was a camp of high tents, stretching all the way up a hill. Thousands must be contained in here, he reckons. Double or treble that for what he has not yet been able to see.

A voice calling outside has the boy dashing at once. Urgent orders are issued and he rushes back into the tent in a flurry of movement with a mass of silken material in his arms. He unfolds it, beckoning the man to put up his arms and before he can protest, the boy has swept the material over his head and he is now wearing a strange garment, long and flowing. Like a robe women would wear. He is ready to voice his disapproval when the boy, the tent and everything else disappears.

_Instead, he sees raw green rolling hills and a well-tended, though not overly luxurious garden. He watches from a window and he knows that is where his bedroom is. In the garden, a boy with bright hair tends to his horse, a breathtaking black stallion. He turns towards the window and waves at him. Instinctively, he waves back. He cannot tell who the face belongs to – he is too far – but he can almost feel the other one smile._

A gentle tug on his robe hauls him back to reality. He reacts before he is even aware of it. His hand shoots out, grabbing the intruding arm and twisting it viciously. The boy whimpers as his thin arm is almost wrenched free of its socket by the much bigger and powerfully built man. Suddenly aware and ashamed of his own action, he lets go. Glancing at the boy, he feels guilty for the needless violence he has just inflicted and wishes to express some sort of an apology, but in the next instant he becomes aware of eyes on him.

Four other men are standing in the tent, staring at him silently. Two of them are guards and their spears are at the ready. The other two wear lavish robes and gold rings on their fingers. The one is tall and brooding. The other has small beady eyes and looks somewhat daunted by the scene he has just witnessed. It is this one who speaks first, carefully and haltingly.

'Lord Hephaistion Amyntor, you have been summoned to appear before the Great King Darius.'

TBC


	3. Two

Many thanks to my lovely reviewers for the unexpected - but enormously appreciated ! - support. It is indeed an honor to know that you are awaiting my further fumbling attempts with such anticipation and it is with some trepidation on my part that I offer you the next chapter.

_Two_

If anything good came of it, at least I learned my name, Hephaistion thought grimly.

Not that the name brought back the slightest recollection of his past.

The man who had spoken to him had turned out to be an interpreter. The taller man had not given his name, nor had he spoken. He had merely regarded Hephaistion with open mistrust laced with an interest that he had not bothered to conceal. With an effort to ignore it, Hephaistion had concentrated on what the interpreter had to say but had understood a lot more from what had not been said.

It was the Great King Darius of Persia whose hospitality he enjoyed, yet his initial assumption that he was a captive was accurate. Again, the name meant nothing, but he stored it away together with the other one - of Alexander. Sooner or later the connection between the two, of which Hephaistion was becoming convinced, would become apparent.

The interpreter had addressed him in halting Greek, and Hephaistion had known that only because the man had apologized for his poor language skills.

For one thing, Hephaistion had understood from the interpreter's tone that he was a prized prisoner. With some annoyance, Hephaistion had wondered how it came about that he was captured alive - or barely so - by the enemy. Of course there was a perfectly good explanation; so said the side of him whom he had learned was the voice of reason. But the other side, still young and rash, demanded answers – now! He hated to think what the terms of his release would be. Somehow, it seemed logical that a high-ranking prisoner would be exchanged for great favours in any country. It raked at Hephaistion's mind how these small details seem to spring into his mind so easily while the most important ones escaped him completely.

For another thing, he had realized that the language that he thought in was not Greek. Or not entirely Greek. But it seemed to him that he had known both languages all his life. It was as far as he got, because the more he forced his mind to obey and remember, the more elusive any part of his past became.

So over the next few hours he continued to try and piece his memories together, chiefly wondering who this Alexander was, whose name he kept repeating to himself. He felt no stir of emotion, neither warmth nor dread at the name.

It was the head-wound, he knew. Out of what prior knowledge he could not fathom, but somehow he did recall having encountered soldiers - again, in what army he could not place – who had been plagued by temporary loss of memory owed to a blow to their head. His own wound had been severe enough to send him into fits of unconsciousness for hours at a time. So he told himself to be patient and perhaps he would be rewarded with more visions from the past.

Only he was aware that he didn't have all that much time. How long could he hope to fool the Persian king and his advisors, pretending to remember who he was, when in fact he did not? Of course, they would expect him to be evasive and reveal as little as possible, yet there were limits to what one could talk about before it became blatant that his memory had been severely impaired. Then maybe his captors would reconsider his value in terms of an exchange of hostages.

That afternoon, he endured patiently while the boy washed him from head to toe and rubbed a stinging salve into his healing wounds. The swelling on his head had subsided and headaches only plagued him at night before he slept or when he was particularly tense. It was one of those times now; just before he was due to confront the might of Persian royalty. Hephaistion did not feel remotely hungry and he pushed away the bowl of fruit offered by the boy.

The young man noticed it, because Hephaistion saw a glint of concern in the dark eyes. It was the first time Hephaistion bothered to notice anything about the boy and he wondered if it was the first time the boy showed it. Hephaistion had never stopped long enough to give any thought to the boy, whose presence he took for granted by now. Suddenly, it occurred to him that, because he was at the mercy of his captors after all, they could decide to remove the boy from his side. The thought was a lot less welcome than Hephaistion would have cared to admit. He realized he must have been gazing quite intently at the boy, because the youngster averted his eyes and a faint blush crept into his cheeks.

'I'm Hephaistion,' he said trying to sound as amiable as he could, pointing a finger to his chest. 'What is your name?'

Surely, he thought, the boy must have heard his name before. And indeed, instant understanding was mirrored in the dark eyes. But in the next moment sorrow swept over the boy's features. He pointed a finger to his mouth and shook his head helplessly.

He was mute. Hephaistion sighed. No wonder the boy attended to him in silence.

Yet in spite of feeling saddened, Hephaistion was more at ease, now that he had made known his acknowledgement of the boy's presence. He allowed the boy to help him dress in the clothes that had been given to him. It felt odd to have his legs wrapped in cloth and not feel the skin of his inner thighs rub free. Surely his own clothes must be different, Hephaistion deduced. A long tunic, complete with an ornate belt, finished the outfit. Of course, he would have preferred to wear his own clothes, but apart from not even knowing how they looked like – though he assumed he had been wearing armour of sorts – he did not think that they were in any condition to be worn, considering the state he himself must have been brought into the Persian camp.

He tucked away a mental note to enquire about his clothes later. More answers could lie hidden there.

He did not protest when the boy produced a comb and, with some effort, smoothed the knots in his hair. Instinctively, Hephaistion felt that his attendant took his job very seriously. Because he still felt a little guilty about his earlier violent reaction towards the boy, Hephaistion kept his grimaces at a minimum as the knots were defeated one by one.

But when the boy produced a jar containing a dark powder and a miniature brush, Hephaistion raised an eyebrow. Mutely but resolutely, he was bidden to close his eyes. Hephaistion shook his head. He had no desire to look like a Persian subject. Wearing their garb was one thing. Painting himself like a girl was entirely another.

The boy stepped back and regarded Hephaistion half-critically. Obviously he was looking for anything that might be out of place, but he found nothing, because he smiled shyly and nodded his approval. Hephaistion, less inclined to smile, nevertheless did so. It did not hurt to show some appreciation after all.

A moment later, the tent flap was raised. The escort had arrived. Hephaistion stepped out into the fading light and raised a silent plea to find more answers before he returned.

Answers were something that Alexander had not had for three weeks. He had known, when every one of the bodies of the men sent out was accounted for – except for Hephaistion's – that his friend must have met the fate of every high-ranking official who was more valuable alive than dead.

The brief elation he had experienced at that realization had nevertheless been assaulted by the horrifying implications: sooner or later, if indeed Hephaistion had survived the attack, Darius would put forth terms for his release. What that meant, Alexander could only guess.

But one thing was certain: before the eyes of the entire world, before his army and the enemy alike, he would be faced with a choice that he would give up his life to avoid.

The weeks had passed and Darius had not sent an emissary. Alexander had been convinced that Darius, whose spies must have informed him of Hephaistion's closeness to him, would ask for his household to be released to him in exchange for his friend. His men would not approve of exchanging the vital advantage that the Persian royal women presented for one of them who had been captured. There would even be those who welcomed Hephaistion's demise. But Alexander could deal with that.

What he could not entirely deal with however was Darius' lack of communication. It unnerved him slightly, even if he did not wish to acknowledge it.

Logically that could mean only two things: that Darius did not wish to trade Hephaistion just yet, for whatever reason. Or, even worse, that Hephaistion was badly wounded, or even dead, and there would be no point to the trade.

Then came the night when Alexander felt his composure crumble. Enraged with himself, he retired to his tent to confer with Ptolemy alone, feeling too burdened to allow any of his other generals to see him in so vulnerable a state of mind.

'I've decided, Ptolemy. We are going ahead with the battle. It will have to be Gaugamela. Even if it's Darius' choice.'

Ptolemy sighed. He had assumed as much. The plain had been smoothed by Darius' servants and it held all the advantages for the Persians.

'I will call a war council in the morning. I can hear them already,' Alexander said heatedly, pacing around his tent. ' "They outnumber us five to one." "It is Darius' terrain." "There's no turning back if we decide to accept the terms." "Are you doing this with Hephaistion in mind? Grow up, Alexander – would you have rushed into battle and sacrificed your entire army in the process had it been another one of us who was taken?". They will all say that. '

'And they wouldn't be so wrong, Alexander,' Ptolemy countered gently. 'Most of them are great generals, but they lack your vision. And yes, there will be those who will see your tactic as a rushed move to get Hephaistion back. But think about what Hephaistion would counsel you to do right now, if he were here? He would not agree to such madness.'

Alexander grimaced. 'We have little choice, even if it wasn't for Hephaistion being captive. And I daresay that even if he is captive and not badly wounded, he can take care of himself. But this is not why I asked you here. I will have it out with the rest of the generals tomorrow at the council. For now, I just need someone to talk to.'

Ptolemy understood. What Alexander was saying in not so many words was that he missed the presence of a friend.

'I am worried at the lack of news,' Alexander said truthfully. 'It has crossed my mind more than once that he could be dead after all. And I cannot think of how I will go on without him. I know I must, as I indeed have these past weeks, but more and more I realize that maybe I don't want to. Not if I have to give up someone I hold so dear.'

Alexander's eyes were aflame as if possessed by a terrible memory.

'I'll let you in on a secret, Ptolemy' he said as his voice dropped to almost a whisper. 'When I was younger, I would pray to Zeus for Hephaistion to die before me. And do you know why? Because I don't want him to have to deal with the pain of losing me. I know he's the more level-headed and practical of the two of us, and that he would probably be able to pick up the pieces and carry on - for my sake - but still I prayed for it. Why then, Ptolemy, when losing him has become almost certainty, do I feel so scared?'

'This is madness, Alexander,' Ptolemy answered, completely at a loss as to what words - soothing or harsh - to tell the man and bring him back from the edge of reason. 'You are making yourself sick over this.'

He knew that there was little that Alexander had not considered already. He also knew that, after three weeks, Alexander was neither in denial, nor in the throes of anger anymore. The least he could do for his half-brother was to help him accept the inevitable in whatever way he could.

'You are both grown men. You've seen much of this world. Do you not think it is time to set aside some of your childhood phantasms? Let us fight this battle and then decide what to do about Hephaistion. I doubt it they would have harmed him in any way. Not after the way you treated Darius' family.'

Alexander nodded dolefully. 'And that is what we will do, Ptolemy. But sometimes in my heart, I feel as if I've already lost him. There are times when he feels so far away that I know I have no other choice. Yet there are other times when I would give anything in this world just to see him once more.'

'Hephaistion would not want you to make a different choice than the one you have made,' said Ptolemy levelly.

He watched Alexander's agony written all over his face. The usually clear eyes were bloodshot and uncertain and it had been a long time since Ptolemy had seen him like that. In fact, the only other time that Ptolemy had seen Alexander so lost was just after Philip's death, when he had caught a glimpse of Alexander's frightened eyes, in an unguarded moment.

'I know what Hephaistion would want me to do,' Alexander said quietly, staring straight ahead, as if seeing through the fabric of the tent across the miles where the Persians had most likely imprisoned his friend. 'He wouldn't think of how the men would hate him if I chose him above all of them. But he would not want them to hate _me_ for it. And more than that, he would think of what it would cost me in terms of my dreams. That maybe, years from now, when we would have returned to Macedon, not quite the conquerors that we planned to be in our youth – he would think that I might turn bitter. He would certainly not be able to live with himself if that had to happen. It is why he would want me to choose to fight this battle here, regardless of what might happen to him.'

Ptolemy sighed. 'I hear you,' he said gently, 'and I know that is exactly what Hephaistion would want you to do. He loves you too much. But tell me, what is it that Alexander wants to do?'

Alexander sank in a chair. He ran his hands through his hair violently, as if he wished to rip it all out.

'Don't you see, Ptolemy? There is no more Alexander. I cannot think of myself as a man apart any longer. Instead I have to think of this army, the enemy and their expectations – of this whole monster I've created. It is devouring me alive and I am enslaved to it until the end of my days, no matter how many loved ones I have to hurt in the process. What Alexander the Man desires is completely irrelevant. But what Alexander the King must do is what the world will see. And it has nothing to do with love or the soul.'

TBC


	4. Three

_Three_

It was a long ride to the King's tent. When Hephaistion had seen the tall horse awaiting him, he had assumed that they thought he was not strong enough to walk even a short distance. But soon it had soon become apparent that the royal tent was quite a distance away from where Hephaistion had spent his recovery.

He glanced around, paying attention to the number of men, horses, tents, spears, committing them to his flaky memory and hoping to be able to hold them there for as long as necessary. In the distance, he heard a din of voices and his eyes followed the noise. His heart quailed at the sight of a chariot with scythed blades around the wheels. Whatever army he fought for – this dreadful machinery was what they were up against and even before considering numbers and strategy, the odds looked hopelessly biased in the Persian's favour

Before they even got close, Hephaistion had known which tent housed the King of Persia. It was the size of a fort, with haughty flags that hung limply in the dry desert air. Fascinated, Hephaistion beheld the intricate patterns and colours, and something stirred in his memory. He had he seen this kind of tent before.

"_So this is what it means to be a king."_

_The words rang clearly in his mind, but who had spoken them remained a mystery. He just seemed to know beyond a doubt that it had been someone else._

With a great effort of will, Hephaistion steered his thoughts back to the present, preventing his mind from wandering into the chaos that his lack of remembrance brought about. He needed his wits about him – now more than ever.

He dismounted awkwardly, concealing a grimace of pain caused by his leg wound. Another painted man, huge and corpulent, wearing what seemed to be a cart-load of jewels around his neck, nodded politely at him – in spite of his menacing appearance - and bade him to follow without a word. He was expected. Hephaistion entered the royal tent alone. His escort remained outside.

The silence in the tent was discomforting at the least. Hephaistion's nostrils were assailed by heady smell of incense and he became instantly light-headed from the spicy aroma. He fought the urge to take a deep breath and steadied himself. He noted some eight men, Persian nobility no doubt, who stared at him, some with open hostility, some concealed behind deadpan masks. He met their eyes levelly. Amongst them, he caught sight of the tall man with broody eyes who had visited his tent together with the interpreter and had unnerved him with his leering countenance. Only this time his eyes were dispassionate, as if he were seeing Hephaistion for the first time.

His guide led him towards the throne, obstructing the view with his bulk. Hephaistion noted the perfect grooming of the Persians, their curled beards and jewelled garb when he stopped short of colliding with something on the floor. When he looked down, he realized with a measure of shock that the fat man was making reverence and speaking in a hushed tone to the man on the throne. Abruptly, Hephaistion raised his eyes to meet those of Darius.

The King sat still as a deity and at a glance, Hephaistion was in no doubt that he was in the presence of royalty. Darius could have been sitting in the most common of chairs with no attendants around him and he would still make his surroundings look royal. If anything, the man's stature alone inspired respect, even when seated. However grudgingly, Hephaistion had to admit it.

Darius studied Hephaistion neutrally. Not a muscle twitched on the handsome face with darkened eyelids. Hephaistion returned his stare equably for a moment before strong arms grabbed him from behind and forced him to his knees. He struggled and tried to shake them. Just as suddenly, he was released and allowed to stand up straight. A gesture from Darius had held the guards back.

The Great Kind of Persia spoke to him then, in polished though heavily accented Greek, as if no one else was present. To Hephaistion it seemed as if the Persian king's black eyes sought to bear into his very soul. His lips barely moved when he uttered the words, as if mortal language was a disease that could be caught by breathing the same air as everyone else.

'You are spirited like an unbroken horse, Lord Amyntor. I will not force you to submit to my customs. But you will do well to remember that you are protected in my camp only as long as you are not causing trouble.'

What trouble, Hephaistion thought wildly. You mean fighting back when people try to take away my dignity? He would have dearly liked to voice those words, but instead he spoke the proper words.

'You have my gratitude for your protection, Great King.'

In the periphery of his vision, Hephaistion noted that the tall bulky man had moved closer to the throne. The weight of his stare, different from Darius', made Hephaistion's shudder.

'Have your lodgings been adequate?' Darius asked smoothly. 'Was the care that was given to you enough for you to regain your strength?'

Hephaistion frowned inwardly. Somehow, it seemed beneath the Great King to enquire after the treatment of a prisoner, however important. Hephaistion sensed there was more to this than met the eye.

'Yes, sire. Everything has been satisfactory so far.'

'It would only be fair to offer this treatment to a hostage such as yourself. After all, I am returning Alexander's favour.'

A prison is still a prison, Hephaistion thought bitterly.

'I see that you are a man of few words, Lord Amyntor. Quite a feat in someone of your years,' he added in a lighter tone and Hephaistion could not be sure if it was meant as a compliment or as a mere oddity. It came as a new surprise for him, because he instantly found himself wondering how old he was.

'I will ask of you then what I need to know. But beware, I am expecting an honest answer.'

The black eyes seemed to turn even blacker, if it was at all possible and, much as Hephaistion was loath to admit to himself, he almost squirmed under that gaze.

It was more than likely that Darius would ask a question that he would not know the answer to. If he answered it - he would be doomed for being untruthful. If the nature of the question was such that a soldier of the opposing army could not answer without betraying his own comrades, he would still be doomed. Answers could be obtained by any means if necessary. The only determination that Hephaistion could cling to was that he was definitely not going out without a good fight.

Some of his turmoil must have been partially evident, because Darius seemed to change his mind and instead said, 'You assume I will ask for vital information about Alexander's army? Surely, as one of his closest companions, you would be the best source. There is still time for that. And besides, my spies are hard at work. But no, that is not what I need to know.'

Hephaistion's heart started to sink, but the bit of information that Darius had shared unwittingly sent his spirit soaring. In one sentence, he'd had confirmation of his rank and on whose side he fought. Now if only he could remember Alexander and everything else in between.

'Tell me, Hephaistion,' Darius said silkily, speaking the young man's name as if they were long-time friends, 'are the rumours about my wife and Alexander true? Or was Alexander just throwing dust in my eyes?'

Darius' wife and Alexander? Was this about two men fighting over a woman?

Desperately, Hephaistion tried to read into the question, his mind frantically grasping at anything that might provide a clue. But the question had been asked with little leeway and even as he spoke, Hephaistion knew that the only thing he could do was pretend.

'Great King, you have not been deceived. And I am not aware of any disparaging rumours.'

Darius snorted. 'Of course! What else can I expect a companion of Alexander to say? However, this is not what I wanted to hear,' the black eyes sparkled angrily, even if Darius' mouth remained mostly immobile. 'If I wanted a glib tongue, I would have listened to that eunuch Alexander sent with the news of my wife's death. You mean to tell me that the honours he bestowed upon her when she died were meant for someone who was not his bedfellow?'

Like a drowning man grasping at straws, so Hephaistion struggled to put the meaning of the words together, knowing full well that he had no more time to gain by trying to avoid a direct answer.

'That is the truth,' Hephaistion stated with as much calm as he could muster. It was a stab in the dark. But since he had been told whose side he was on, Hephaistion's honour dictated that he support those he belonged with at any cost.

Darius did not seem moved by the answer. His eyes narrowed to a slit.

'So you are saying that my wife died of a sickness and not in birthing Alexander's child? You are saying that I should believe that my household is indeed treated as his own family?'

Hephaistion stared. Surely, just the same as the Persian king spoke Greek, however haltingly, some of the nobles around him must understand the language. How, then, could Darius ask him of his wife, who, by all accounts, had died in Alexander's keep? And, in all likelihood, had been his mistress.

Slowly, he replied 'I am saying that, yes.'

A great silence came over Darius and Hephaistion became once again aware of the other Persian noble's eyes that had not left him for a single moment.

When Darius finally spoke, his words rang like a judgment to Hephaistion. 'I will not send an envoy to Alexander to release my family in exchange for you. He seems to be treating them well enough. And he will have further reason to continue to do so now that I have you. Besides, we outnumber Alexander's forces greatly in the upcoming battle. It will be nothing for me to spare a unit of my men to raid Alexander's camp and return my family once the battle has started.'

'But you will remain here. Unharmed and under my protection. I want Alexander to know how it feels to have one so close to him held by the enemy. I want him to wonder if I am treating you right. I want him to know how it feels to be uncertain.'

The news almost shattered Hephaistion's front. It seemed that his relationship with Alexander went deeper than he had initially assumed. Were they family? Friends? Lovers?

He kept his tongue in spite of the protest rising in his throat. But one glance at Darius convinced him that the Persian king was not finished baiting him.

'Or do you think he will think you unimportant?'

_Friends, Hephaistion thought. Family would not be cast aside no matter what._

'Or has Alexander tossed you from his bed when he laid his eyes on my wife? I would not blame him. The most beautiful woman of mortal birth in Asia – she is bound to have the effect on most people.'

_Lovers, Hephaistion decided. _

His heart twisted painfully in his chest. By what merciless god's punishment had he been made to forget the face of his beloved?

Soon after, his audience with Darius was over and as he was escorted back to his tent, Hephaistion weighed up the wealth of information he had received that night. He thanked the gods for allowing him some answers. But cruel as they often liked to be, the gods had opened up more possibilities than they had offered answers.

There was no use dwelling on the past right now. There would be time for that later.

His mind, Hephaistion realized, had been made up even before he had met with Darius. The Persian king had nothing more to say to him except what had seemed to seal his fate: he would remain a prisoner until such time as he saw fit to release him.

Escape was the only way.

On the ride back to his tent, his head swirling with nausea and exhaustion, Hephaistion had decided that one or two more days of rest would increase his chances of making a successful break for it. In spite of aching to run, Hephaistion was realistic enough to understand a man barely recovered from serious wounds would not make it far. But then, Hephaistion had caught a glimpse of the scythed chariots again. They loomed in the distance like starved beasts waiting to gorge on the enemy's flesh. Did his countrymen know about them, Hephaistion wondered.

The desire to escape immediately and the voice of reason battled within him as he reached his tent. The guard stood stiffer than usual and round-eyed and even before Hephaistion entered, instinct told him that something was not right. The mute boy, whose name he had still not learned, stood just as frozen as the guard, with downcast eyes. The light shifted and Hephaistion saw why.

The tall bulky man in Darius' tent sprawled in a chair. He grinned lazily at the sight of Hephaistion who had forgotten all about his heavy glances while he was conversing with Darius.

'Lord Amyntor,' the man pronounced with mockery in his tone, before Hephaistion had a chance to question him. 'I am glad you finally arrived. How considerate of our king to treat you with such care.'

Hephaistion made no effort to conceal his anger. The man's Greek was rudimentary at best and his irreverent tone was more than insulting.

'Who are you and what are you doing here? Did Darius sent you?'

'Oh, no,' laughed the other, 'Darius did not send me. He has no use for you.'

Suddenly, his brooding stare turned to steel and his tone became ominous. 'My name is Bessos, and you should remember it. Your lot will speak of it long after Darius' name has turned to dust.'

'I doubt it,' Hephaistion retorted icily.

In an instant and in spite of his bulk, Bessos was out of the chair and advancing on Hephaistion. The younger man held his ground and soon Bessos stood inches away from his face. He was taller than Hephaistion and he smelled sharply of heavy perfume and sweat.

'Do not presume to be arrogant with me, boy.' There was a feral glint in his eye that would never make him royalty like Darius. 'I can change your fate with a snap of my fingers. Not even Darius will be able to protect you.'

'I need no one's protection,' the reply came as calm as Bessos' words had been incensed.

'If you carry on in this manner, the gods' protection will not be enough. You have some fortitude - for one who is Alexander's whore. Oh yes,' Bessos grinned lewdly, 'I know who you are. My spies are not sleeping in their boots like Darius. I know Alexander hasn't touched Darius' wife. He has no use for her. Though I must confess, I expected you to look a little different. You see, here we use creatures such as him, for pleasure' Bessos pointed to the boy who stood still as a statue. 'I did not expect you to be quite so battle-hardened.'

'No, Darius would not want you for himself,' Bessos said as an afterthought, 'you are not his type: you are flawed. In spite of your striking looks, you are a warrior. The scars on your body bear witness to that. For Darius, nothing is good enough except perfection. But to me – you are more beautiful and desirable than any pleasure slave I have ever had. So I have an offer to make.'

Hephaistion fought the urge to wrap his hands around Bessos' neck and snap it. His only saving grace was the thought that attacking Bessos at this point would put a damper on his escape plan.

'I am no one's pleasure slave,' Hephaistion hissed, 'and I do not wish to hear what you have in mind.'

'Oh, but you will have to hear it,' Bessos said reasonably, as if he were bartering for supplies. 'Because before long, it might seem like a good bargain to you. The prize is your freedom.'

Hephaistion frowned. His skin crawled at the thought of what the price for that would be.

Instead he said just as sensibly, 'You have no authority to offer my release. Nor to make such offers.'

'You will be surprised at how authority can change hands. Who do you think Darius will believe when I tell him you tried to escape? And do you think he'll be interested in protecting you any longer once that happens?'

'You would accuse me of trying to escape?'

Bessos was no fool, Hephaistion realized.

'Anyone with half a mind will guess that you're bound to try sooner or later. And even if you don't, why shouldn't I accuse you of trying to escape, if I do not get my way? I have nothing to lose. You, on the other hand,' Bessos' hand moved up Hephaistion's arm suggestively 'have everything to gain from agreeing.'

'I've heard enough,' Hephaistion said disgustedly, swinging his arm away from the reviled touch. 'Get out.'

Taken aback by the curtness and cheek of the prisoner whom he had thought would jump at the chance, Bessos was momentarily at a loss for words. When he spoke, it was only the threats that Hephaistion had expected.

'You will live to regret this, boy. And when you beg for mercy, you will remember that Bessos makes such offers only once.'

'I'll take my chances,' Hephaistion replied hotly, turning away impatiently. He did not see Bessos stride out, but he felt the earth pounding vigorously under the powerful step.

Hephaistion's heart pummelled savagely and he sank into the chair Bessos had used moments ago. Frantically, he pieced together what information he could and realized that his plan was, at best, hopeless.

To stay – even for one more night - was out of the question now. Sooner rather than later, Bessos would carry through his threat. Rejected and angry, Bessos would want his honour redeemed. From what he had read in Bessos' unspoken words, there was great disdain he held for Darius. Moreover, there was a hint of rebellion in the way he had uttered his own name, like he already saw himself appointed as Darius' successor. However, who would believe a prisoner accusing a high-ranking noble?

The only option left was immediate escape. His memory would have helped, had it been all there. But as it was and if he made it out of the huge Persian camp alive, he did not know where he was going. If the Macedonians were 2 or ten miles away - and in which direction - he did not know. The fact that he was not recovered fully from his wounds no longer mattered. Time did not permit the luxury of full convalescence.

Quiet hands slid on his shoulders and for a brief moment, Hephaistion's breath caught. But he recognized the touch, being a recent memory. The painted boy did not need to ask permission because he could not. Relaxing slightly under the massaging fingers, surprisingly strong for a wiry boy, Hephaistion worked through the details of his plan. There was no time for sleep.

TBC


	5. Four

_I am positively overwhelmed by the response to this story, both here and on my LiveJournal.My sincerest thanks to allmy reviewers.Please be assured that I cherish each and every one of your comments._

_I do wish I had more time to write, so please bear with me. _

_Four _

Night advanced on the camp and the noises of men, horses and weapons became fewer. With every ruffle of sound outside his tent, Hephaistion wondered if the guard was being reinforced. It wasn't. The guard still stood out there alone and no other soldiers were added to his detail.

Dread crept into Hephaistion's heart, because he understood too well the reason behind it: Bessos was indeed waiting for him to escape and reinforcing the guards would slim his chances of making a successful getaway. While Hephaistion was in Darius' keep as a war prisoner, Bessos could not touch him. But an escape attempt would cause that protection to fall away.

Yet even this knowledge was not enough to prevent Hephaistion from trying. If anything, he wanted to take the information about the scythed chariots back to his countrymen. And, to be true to his heart, he wanted to see Alexander again. He wanted to remember his life as it was before. He had no wish to die in the attempt, but he thought it the better alternative to living empty of memory, of what made him belong, or as a captive to enemies he did not remember why he was fighting.

Everything he had planned hung on a thread so thin that the simplest of details going wrong would bring about disaster. As it was, he had to rely on outside factors to make his pitiful plan come off. He wondered if ever, in his past, he had made a plan that was more foolish, or more desperate.

He lay quietly in his bed, forcing himself to breathe normally and to slow his pounding blood. When he judged the time to be right, he started to toss and turn vigorously, as if in a nightmare, then gradually he began to thrash and convulse.

In a moment, as he had expected, he felt the boy presence and his soothing hands, trying to calm him. But he did no relent. He heaved uncontrollably, his breath wheezing and hitching. His hands grappled at his own chest, as if trying to rip his ribcage apart and get air into his lungs. In panic, the boy raced out of the tent, dragging the guard inside and leading him to the narrow cot so he could to get a better look and call for help.

In the next instant, Hephaistion's arm shot up and seized the man around his throat, not quite crushing his windpipe but enough to render him helpless. The guard was powerfully built but he was no match for Hephaistion who, even though not fully recovered, had the element of surprise on his side. Swiftly, Hephaistion moved around the choking man and placed a knee on the small of his back, snapping the soldier's head back with his hands. He was desperate and he could not afford to take chances.

The body crumpled aside and Hephaistion's next move was to turn to the boy, frozen in the dark. He was glad he could not see the shock in those haunted eyes and he felt guilty for having forced the boy to witness the killing. There was no doubt that now, in this boy's eyes, Hephaistion was no more than a killer. He would never lay his hands on him other than in fear.

But it was hardly the time to dwell on feelings. The boy trembled as Hephaistion pulled him against his chest and spoke to him, knowing that he could not understand, but hoping that the meaning would get through somehow.

'I'm sorry you had to see this. But I need help.'

Trying to make his voice sound calmer than he felt, Hephaistion knelt beside the soldier's corpse, the boy's hands trapped in his own. He felt the boy recoil violently when he touched the dead body, tugging at the clothing.

But the boy seemed to understand what Hephaistion wanted of him, because he went to work immediately. On an impulse he felt compelled to heed, Hephaistion ran his thumb lightly across the boy's cheek; desperate to give a reassurance he knew would not be enough. He felt the cheek wet with tears and guilt washed over him anew. Before the night was over, he knew he would have to inflict far more suffering on this youngster.

With the boy's help, Hephaistion stripped the corpse. Already, he felt sweat beading in his hairline and discomfort building in his wounds. They heaved the inert body clumsily onto the cot and covered it with the blankets. Then Hephaistion set about the unpleasant business of dressing himself in the many layers of the Persian's attire. He wasn't making a very good job of it and getting annoyed at wasting the time when again he felt the boy's hands gently pushing his away. With his usual deftness, he had Hephaistion dressed in to time at all.

It felt familiar for Hephaistion to unsheathe the soldier's sword and - mindful of the boy's horror - swing it around gently a few times. He took stock of his other weapons. In addition to the sword, he had a long spear, a little too long to use in combat, and a curved dagger. Nothing special, standard army issue, he assumed, but no piece of iron that would smite an enemy could be disregarded.

Now it came to the most crucial part of his plan so far. The boy seemed to sense his intention. Or maybe it was just pure instinct of conservation on his part. He sank to his knees in front of Hephaistion and with a gesture that completely threw the man, he embraced his legs with his arms, pressing his face against Hephaistion's thighs.

By the Gods, he thinks I am going to kill him too.

With too little time to spare a thought for his own feelings, Hephaistion gently grasped the boy's shoulders and raised him to his feet.

'I am not going to kill you,' he said kindly. 'I would never do that. But you have to tell me something.'

He searched the boy's eyes that in the dark were no more than two twinkles in dark pools of dread.

'Alexander,' Hephaistion spoke the name slowly for the boy to understand. 'Where is his camp?'

Surely the boy must have heard the name of the Persians' greatest enemy. More than that, having lived in this camp for some weeks, he must know which way the enemy was facing.

All he needed was to be pointed in the right direction. Alexander's camp could not be all that far.

The boy moved to the tent exit, to where light was kinder, and to his utter surprise, Hephaistion saw that the fearful eyes he had expected were in fact full of determination, and even anger.

When the boy made a move to turn around and start walking, Hephaistion stopped him. He had planned to knock the boy out cold and make it look like he'd attacked him as well. That way, the repercussions on the youngster would be minimal.

It was inconceivable to him that the Persian would want to actually _show_ him the way out himself. That would spell betrayal by anyone's standards. This gentle boy's life was not something he cared to waste, if he could help it.

'No,' he whispered, shaking his head slowly. 'You nursed me back to health and I owe you my life. I will not have your death on my head.'

The boy's gaze gave nothing away to show that he had understood. Neither did he move to point Hephaistion in the right direction. Instead he held Hephaistion's gaze, his determination never wavering.

Hephaistion nodded slowly and beckoned the boy ahead. Whatever the boy's reasons for helping him were, he had to honour them. Not that the thought of being led straight into a trap had not occurred to Hephaistion. It was just that this boy, who could any day have been his younger brother, spoke volumes with his eyes. And those eyes told of horrors that Hephaistion had no wish to unearth. He prayed that his assessment was right and that the boy did not turn out to be a skilled performer who delivered him back into the hands of his captors.

Trying not to attract attention, the two walked at a steady pace, not more hurried than that of two wearied soldiers who wished to get out of the piercing wind. The camp was well-lit and soldiers had bunched around more sheltered areas, against the dry breeze that forced sand into their eyes and noses. Hephaistion thanked the gods for the chance to cover his face and not look conspicuous. The boy, although not tall enough for a soldier, had wrapped himself in a cloak and in the sand-sweeping wind, he was almost as non-descript as any other auxiliary camp staff.

Finally, they reached a cluster of horses guarded by two soldiers. Aware that the prolonged effort would take a toll on his strength, Hephaistion had indicated to the boy that he needed a horse. Walking even short distances proved exhausting and he'd already had to lean onto the boy's shoulder several times. He needed all his strength to take on the horse guards and not cause uproar.

The guards stood on opposing sides of the horse enclosure. Hephaistion looked around carefully and made sure - for the hundredth time - that the dust swept by the wind made for adequate cover before he slunk behind the first soldier. This time, he had no compunction about the boy having to witness him ramming the dagger in the guard's ribs while his hand clamped over the mouth to stifle the dying scream.

Hephaistion's strength waned briefly when he gently lowered the corpse to the ground and he crumpled to one knee. Allowing himself a moment to catch his breath and settle his spinning head, Hephaistion checked that no one was around and that the other guard was busy trying to calm the anxious whiny of the horses smelling the fresh blood.

He slipped into the second guard's line of sight and was upon him before the man had time to react. However, the guard shifted position reflexively at the last moment and Hephaistion lost his balance, crashing his shoulder into the other man's chest and stabbing blindly forward. The blade barely grazed the man's corselet and he let out a bellow of frustration more than pain. Both men hurtled to the ground, the guard's hands groping blindly for Hephaistion's neck, who regained his balance enough to slap the arms away and slash across the Persian's neck. The man's next scream was reduced to a gurgle as Hephaistion was drenched in the blood spraying from the man's hacked jugular.

The warm liquid on his face and lips gave Hephaistion a jolt and he controlled his urge to retch and instead looked around dismally, half-waiting to already be surrounded by whoever the guards' scream had alerted.

Movement in the corner of his eye made him spin his upper torso, blade at the ready to receive an attacker, but he was too weak to jump to his feet and remained astride the Persian's corpse. Instead, half-blinded by dust and blood, he discerned the boy's figure, who stopped out of arm reach, making sure he would not be run through with Hephaistion's blade. He held out his hand and Hephaistion took it.

'I couldn't do this without you,' Hephaistion rasped, hoisting himself up. He was beyond caring how much the boy could understand and instead vowed to himself that if their escape succeeded, he would see this boy rewarded far beyond his wildest dreams. But first, he decided, they would find the boy a name.

With shaking hands, Hephaistion untied the nearest horse, soothing it in a low murmuring tone, until the beast was settled enough to allow him to mount. With the boy's help, he heaved himself up painfully and the boy swiftly climbed behind him.

There was no time, nor did he have the strength to explain to the boy that the bodies had to be concealed. It bothered him to leave something to chance, but he felt his strength deserting him fast and he hoped to be able to make it out of the camp before he lost it altogether.

He paced the horse to a brisk canter, knowing that the little hope he'd had in secrecy would soon be dashed and that the more distance he managed to put between himself and the his captors – the better.

His head hurt like never before, his vision swimming in and out of focus but, using all his determination to sit up straight, he drove the horse to the direction in which the boy had pointed, sailing amongst the tents and determinedly keeping his eyes ahead. Once or twice, he looked behind him to see if the alarm had been raised but he was not able to discern anything. The boy had wrapped his arms around his waist and Hephaistion felt him parting his hair and the warmth of the boy's breath on the back of his neck. Briefly, the throbbing in his head lessened and he felt strangely soothed.

Then he saw it. Only a short distance away the tents became sparse and gave way to a darker, poorly lit area. The outer edges of the camp would be heavily guarded, especially the side that faced Alexander's camp. For that purpose, he had drawn a crude map in the dirt outside his own tent pinpointing their location then drawing a circle to where Alexander's camp was supposed to be, the direction pointed out by the boy. To make a break right across would be rash and suicidal so Hephaistion had explained - by drawing arrows into the sand - that their escape route would have to take them to the east or to the west of the camp, where the guards would be likely to be less vigilant. Time did not afford them to take the easiest route through the back of the camp, where most likely they could lose their trail by disappearing amongst the supply caravans.

They dismounted and Hephaistion left the boy and the horse behind and limped off to scout the area. He counted the guards and timed the time lapsed between their patrols. Each time the slightest noise cracked the silence, his back muscles knotted painfully, in anticipation of a strike.

Above the wind and the noises of the sleeping camp, he expected that the alarm had already been raised at the site where they had stolen the horse. But none such noises came and the part of Hephaistion's mind that was ever calculating found that fact more than intriguing.

Hephaistion had timed that it was entirely possible to exit the camp unnoticed by the guard and disappear out of their line of vision before the next guard would walk past. He cursed his lack of knowledge of the terrain. If the ground was booby-trapped, or if the enemy had secret units out there, it would be for him to find out the hard way.

But there was nothing for it. He returned to the horse and once again, they mounted the tall beast. This time, as they neared the edge of the camp perimeter and prepared to launch into the darkness, Hephaistion allowed himself to relish the exhilaration coursing through his body, almost to the point of numbing out the pain. He felt the boy's heart beat faster against his back and he could tell that, as he spurred the horse on, the Persian felt it too.

Hephaistion did not look back as they rode on. They would take a turn west as soon as they had ridden for one hour. The chances of encountering Persian scout units would have greatly diminished by then and, by a great detour, they could reach Alexander's camp by daybreak.

It was barely a few minutes into the race when it happened: Hephaistion heard the unmistakeable hiss of arrows slice through the air even before the horse slid to an abrupt halt, scared out of its mind by the sound. It was unlikely that Alexander's scouts would draw so close to the Persian camp.

But Hephaistion refused to give up hope and he spurred the horse on regardless. It was too soon to make a judgement and only one way to find out. A sound of men and horses carried on the wind. But not behind them. Ahead of them.

Torches were lit out of nowhere and Hephaistion stopped short of the glistening tips of many spears that were pointed at them, blocking their advance. Dismayed, Hephaistion recognized the soldiers' attire, their long spears and well-groomed horses. It was the only memory of soldiers he had, for his only recent memory was that of the Persian army.

A band of about thirty Persian soldiers closed in on them, their spear tips forming a tight ring around them.

Hephaistion's blood boiled. If this was to be the end, he wasn't prepared to give up his life lightly. He spared a brief thought for the boy riding behind him, whose arms had wound around him so tight as if not even death could part them. He made a move to draw his sword but three spears were instantly thrust against his throat. From the ground, unseen hands reached up and rid him of his other weapons. In all this time, not a word had been was spoken.

He was pulled off the horse, the spear tips still close, and his hands were tied roughly behind his back. For a moment, Hephaistion wished to hurl himself at the spears and end it there and then. But he heard the muffled sound of the mute boy's pain as he was kicked to the ground and booted savagely. A worse fate awaited his young friend.

If Hephaistion could repay his debt and help the boy in any way, perhaps it was worth staying alive a little longer.

TBC


	6. Five

**Warning**! This chapter contains elements of NON-CON. Please, PLEASE!skip if you are sensitive.

A/N: This chapter was particularly difficult to write and I am aware that some of you will dislike what is coming. If this is getting too dark, or too predictable for your tastes, I apologize in advance.

_Five_

There was a moment of deep silence in the royal tent as Alexander finished expounding his strategy. The eyes of his generals were riveted on the clay figurines representing various units of the army sprawled in apparent disarray on a huge floor map. They all recognized the method in the apparent madness but even soldiers as experienced as them needed a while to digest the tactics. It was Parmenion who finally broke the silence.

'Daring as usual, Alexander,' he said good-naturedly, shaking his head. 'But I can see the chance, in spite of what I said earlier.' Parmenion's advice had been to mount a night attack in view of the Persians' clear advantage.

'Mad, not daring,' Philotas exclaimed, grinning widely at Alexander. 'And all the more attainable because of it.'

Alexander smiled and to those present, it seemed that the smile almost reached his eyes, something that had not happened since Hephaistion's capture.

'I'm glad you see it,' he said with genuine gratitude, his eyes shining with excitement. He studied the map for a moment longer then he turned aside impatiently. They all knew that he itched for action but also that he was wishing for solitude, to think and to make peace with his demons.

'Alexander,' Parmenion said solemnly. 'You should know that we are all sorry there has been no news of Hephaistion.'

The other generals directed scathing glances at Parmenion. Was the old general mad to bring up the subject of Hephaistion now, before the battle, and send Alexander into pits of despair again? Alexander had hidden it well, but it had been difficult to keep the mask up at all times, surrounded as he was by people who had known him a long time.

'Parmenion…' warned Cleitus.

'No, Cleitus,' Alexander interjected swiftly. His face steeled once again into a mask of determination. He turned to Parmenion, 'I am glad you brought it up. You all need to know how I feel about this and how much of my heart is into this battle.'

He paused for a moment, commanding attention.

'There is no part of me that will not be out there with you tomorrow morning. Know this, because I am only saying it once. After the battle, I will spare no effort to learn what has become of Hephaistion. But to do that, first we must have victory. And I can only win if my mind and heart are in the right place.'

The generals voiced their approval as one. It was clear what it was costing Alexander to say what he was saying, but the truth in his words was beyond their power to doubt.

'Are you going to trade Darius' family for Hephaistion's freedom?' Philotas asked, emboldened by Alexander's approach to the subject.

Suddenly, Alexander looked ten years older. The colour drained from his face and he looked as if all hope of finding Hephaistion had deserted him.

'Yes, if it comes to that,' he said quietly.

'Darius' family gives us great leverage,' Parmenion stated the obvious, drawing further enraged glances from his comrades.

'That is true,' Alexander admitted, 'but after tomorrow, it will no longer matter. Because after tomorrow, Darius will be defeated and his family will be better protected in my keep than anywhere near him.'

With that, Alexander signaled to a squire who promptly started serving wine to all the men present. It was obvious that the King considered the matter closed.

'Feast on a good dinner tonight, my friends, and get a good night's sleep. And let us pray that Darius will keep his troops awake, waiting for us to strike at night.'

'I'll drink to that,' Ptolemy said and the others took his cue and downed their goblets.

Over the wine, the tension ebbed and the generals could breathe a collective sigh of relief. At least they knew what was coming and they could all sleep easier.

That night, Alexander sat up late, alone and thinking. It was the first time, before a great crossroads in his life, when he was without Hephaistion. If his trusted friend had been there, by now they would have been alone together, going over details and arguing over points that Hephaistion often saw clearer than himself or that Alexander might have overlooked with the bigger picture in mind. Hephaistion had the talent of getting to the essence of things and dissecting even seemingly unimportant details. More than a skill, it had become an instinct that Hephaistion had honed in the years they had spent at war and that Alexander had learned to listen to closely.

He knew that he was ready for the battle, in all respect, except for this. Suddenly, a longing to hold Hephaistion took hold of him. Such was his need to feel Hephaistion's presence that he would have cast aside his idea of conserving his energy for the battle and he would have loved him long into the night.

It ripped him apart that he had never said good-bye to Hephaistion properly, that there had been no embrace or kiss or touch before his friend had ridden away on that reconnaissance mission. They had both taken it for granted that by nightfall they would dine together and go through Hephaistion's report, as always.

He tried to remember a time in his life that had been difficult and Hephaistion had not been there. Talking, arguing, challenging or just touching, holding.

And the fear grew in his heart that perhaps from now on, he would have to face the eve of all his battles alone. He knew that he could do it this time, he had prepared himself. But he wasn't sure that he would be able to do it in future. The thought brought three weeks' worth of unshed tears to his eyes and, knowing that he had to let go, at least until the battle was over, he allowed himself the luxury of mourning.

He thought himself fortunate for feeling so secure in his knowledge that the Persians would be defeated tomorrow and he thanked the Gods for allowing him to see that light. And he wished he could experience the same serenity when it came to Hephaistion's fate.

When he extinguished his lamp, Alexander promised the Gods that when the battle was over, he would not leave any stone unturned until he found Hephaistion.

Victory and the crown of the world meant nothing if they asked for a price so dear.

Far across the plains of Gaugamela, Bessos and the rest of the Persian generals were taking their last briefing before the battle. The King had ordered his army to sit up the whole night, fully armed and in anticipation of a night attack by the Macedonians.

Bessos bowed to take his leave from Darius, but the King beckoned him to stay behind when the other generals were filing out of the strategy meeting.

'I hear that the Macedonian has attempted escape,' Darius said without introduction when they were finally alone.

Bessos was prepared for the question.

'Yes, my Lord, he has, and he has killed three of our soldiers in the process. But I perceived his intention and had units posted outside the camp, covering all possible routes to Alexander's camp. He fell right into the trap.'

Darius nodded. 'I understand that you have him under heavy guard.'

'Yes, King,' Bessos replied rather curtly.

'Good,' Darius said, his expression unreadable. 'His fate would concern me had my family not been with Alexander. I want you to remember that when you consider his punishment.'

'He has not been harmed, my Lord,' Bessos said quickly, with a tinge of bitterness in his tone.

'I know that,' Darius replied.

'But, my Lord, he needs to be taught a lesson.' Bessos' eyes glistened.

'Indeed,' Darius agreed, his gaze piercing the Baktrian. 'After all, my wife died while in Alexander's keep. I only have his word that she wasn't harmed.'

Bessos stared. He was unsure of what Darius wanted but he had his answer in the next moment.

'Tomorrow, during the battle,' Darius explained, 'I have ordered a force to raid Alexander's camp and rescue my family. Once my household has been safely returned, the Macedonian is yours. I am not a fool, Bessos. I saw the way you looked at him.'

Bessos did not bother to hide his satisfaction. He had a reputation for being a beast and for inflicting much suffering on his bed partners. None of his pleasure slaves lasted more than a few months, either because they were discarded to the men for entertainment or, if they were lucky, because they succumbed to death.

'I would not dare, if I knew that your Majesty…' Bessos began.

'I do not!' Darius said forcefully, silencing Bessos with a pointed look. 'I have no desire to eat the crumbs from Alexander's table. What you do is your affair. But until such time as my family is back, I do not want him spoiled, do you understand me?'

Bessos bowed stiffly, but resented being treated like a child who is shown his treat and then told to be patient and wait for it.

'I understand, Lord King.'

Bessos made his way towards his quarters, the part of the camp that contained the Baktrian forces. He called a meeting of his officers and relayed the orders for the men to be kept awake all night. Under pain of death, no drink other than water was to be issued to the soldiers in the hours of rest forfeited. He reviewed special points of the strategy that he considered critical, especially since his forces would be positioned to the left of the Persian side, which meant that they would be facing the Macedonian right, the side from which Alexander always led.

Privately, Bessos held grudging respect for Alexander's boldness, but any fool could see that this time even someone as daring as the young Macedonian king would come short. It was not only because of the way he was outnumbered, but because the Persians possessed superior weaponry and their famed cavalry had no rival in the entire world.

With the meeting finished, Bessos ate a light supper in his tent then took a walk through the camp for an informal inspection. He trusted his men to carry out his orders, but he trusted his own eyes more. The men feared his temper and had seen on occasion what befell those that were on receiving end of it.

The inspection revealed nothing worth griping about, so, with time to kill until he deemed the next scrutiny necessary, he made his way to the prisoners' enclosure.

The open area was heavily guarded and it held two men only: Hephaistion and the boy. The prisoners had been stripped and chained and had not been fed or given anything to drink the whole day. The sun battered down on their bodies, blistering their exposed skin and scalding their insides. Bessos had ordered them to be kept awake and even when one of them showed signs of passing out from the heat or the lack of nourishment, they were shaken or kicked until they opened their eyes.

The two had been separated and the boy, by the looks of it, had been assaulted repeatedly during the day. Bessos had thought it wise to keep him alive for a little while longer, especially since the Macedonian had seemed to be very concerned about the boy's fate.

'He had no willing part in it,' Hephaistion had claimed when they had been dragged back to the camp. 'I forced him to obey under pain of death, and took him with me to show me the way.'

'I would believe you,' Bessos had said shrewdly, 'if I didn't know who this boy was. You see, I killed his three older brothers myself, for rebellion. They belonged to a tribe that refused to pay their levies. I kept him as a pleasure slave and to serve as an example to those who would think of mutiny in future, but I had his tongue cut out. He's still alive because I took pity on him even after I tired of him. He has plenty of reasons to hate me and help the enemy.'

The news won him a surprised glance from Hephaistion whose piercing eyes, the only part of him that was not covered in dust and filth, grew large and he seemed to suddenly understand a lot more about his young friend.

'Do you know what the punishment is for treachery?' Bessos taunted. 'I will have his nose and ears cut – to start with.'

Hephaistion grimaced, glancing worriedly at the area where the boy lay in the dirt, broken and lifeless.

'Please, spare his life,' he pleaded.

'Are you begging for mercy?'

Hephaistion's gaze burned into Bessos but his voice was quiet and unyielding.

'For him – I am. Do what you will with me, but spare him.'

'How very noble of you,' Bessos mocked, his brooding countenance twisted by a dark smirk. 'But sadly, it is not enough.'

No doubt, the young man thought he owed a debt of gratitude to the boy for whose fate he now felt responsible. His bright eyes fell closed for a moment, as if he were weighing his options, then rose to meet Bessos' once again.

'Does your offer still stand?' The Baktrian saw his resolve and found himself wondering where this man found the inner resources for such doggedness, starved and thirsty and broken as he was.

No, not broken, Bessos thought. Not yet.

Ever since the Macedonian had been imprisoned, Bessos had watched him with growing interest. Gradually, he had become intrigued then attracted to the proud warrior. His growing temptation had then become desire to possess and break the Macedonian. Relishing the prospect, Bessos thought about the welcome change Hephaistion would make from the terrified slaves and eunuchs he forced into his bed. This one will fight back and offer him a challenge. Nevertheless, Bessos was not a fool. He could not risk having the prisoner, even weakened as he was, trying to attack him. Hephaistion would be forced into submission. Bessos sighed inwardly. One couldn't have everything, after all.

He crouched beside the chained man and leaned closer to him. He could smell the sweat and the dust caked on Hephaistion's skin in and he became instantly aroused.

'Do you remember when I told you that you would beg for mercy? I was right, wasn't I?'

Hephaistion's expression was unreadable, but not defeated.

'And do you remember when I said that when you begged for mercy you should know that I only make such offers once?'

This time, a grimace of hatred spread slowly onto Hephaistion's dulled features.

'You have nothing to offer anymore that I cannot take whenever I please. You are no longer under King Darius' protection.'

He stood abruptly, enjoying the despair he saw growing in Hephaistion's eyes.

'But I feel merciful today,' he added as an afterthought, 'so I will grant you this one wish: it is in your power to keep this boy alive. If you resist me in any way or even think about attacking me - he dies. Slowly.'

'I understand,' Hephaistion replied. With an effort, he straightened his back as much as he could with the heaviness of the chains and the exhaustion grinding his bones.

Smiling, Bessos ordered Hephaistion unchained with a curt command. 'Clean him up and give him something to eat.'

He turned to Hephaistion. 'I'll be waiting.'

Less than an hour later, Hephaistion was shown inside Bessos' tent. The dirt had been washed off his skin and his hair hung wet but even with his hands bound and knowing himself to be at the mercy of Bessos, Hephaistion had a defiant air about him. Good, Bessos mused.

He beckoned to the guards who pushed Hephaistion towards the back of the tent and secured his tied hands to a hook attached high onto a supporting pillar.

'You are like an obstinate horse that will not be broken,' Bessos murmured into Hephaistion's ear. 'But in the end – they all break. Some just take longer than the others.'

Bessos stepped back to admire the lithe body stretching upwards like a taut spring and he felt a shiver of anticipation jolt through him.

Hephaistion's arms twisted at an awkward angle and he was forced to throw his head back as if in rapture, his wet hair hanging like strings halfway down his back. Heeding an impulse to ravage and inflict pain, Bessos shoved his bulky frame against Hephaistion's back, digging his fingers into the younger man's upper arms. He felt the younger man's body stiffen in resistance, trapped between him and the pole.

'If you struggle, the boy dies,' Bessos reminded him.

'Tomorrow morning, I will ride into battle with the knowledge that you submitted to me. And when I've broken and grown tired of you, I will send you back to him so he can see what price in sorrow he must pay for his conquering greed.'

Bessos seized a fistful of Hephaistion's hair and bit greedily into the flesh at the base of his neck. The Macedonian's body arched in agony but no sound escaped him.

'Very brave of you,' Bessos crooned, 'but don't waste your energy. You'll be screaming long before I'm done.'

Hephaistion squeezed his eyes shut.

_Within the confines of his mind, Hephaistion willed himself away from the torment of the flesh. _

_His eyes filled with the sky and he found himself lying on a soft bed of grass, his arm protectively wrapped around a body. A head of bright hair rested on his chest and he buried his nose in it, inhaling the earthy, familiar fragrance. He felt warm breath on his skin and with his fingertips he traced the outline of an arm then a neck, feeling the life throbbing there._

_He knew that he was home, where he belonged, more complete than he had ever been. _

_'You are the first and the last,' a voice whispered with infinite sadness and Hephaistion could not be sure if it had come from outside or inside of him. This divine being clinging to him had become part of him as he was indeed part of it. Tears of gratitude coasted his cheeks and streamed into his hair. _

_Suddenly, an urge to crush his lips against the other's and to lose himself into his eyes seized him. But he could not – would not – move, such was the comfort and protection that he experienced. _

_To break a moment like this would be to commit a mortal offense. But what was he after all, if not merely mortal? Temptation gnawed at him with excruciating intensity. He wanted to have one glimpse only of this man – no! this god - who blessed him with his embrace. Surely, he could not suffer the fate of Orpheus for daring one single look._

_Sadness shrouded him at the thought of shifting his body even for the instant that it took to lift and turn the other's head towards him to recognize the features. But even as his neck muscles began to obey the command, he knew that it was wrong. _

_The sky darkened at once to a sickening shade of purple before he even finished his thought and the warmth surrounding him was gone: he stood naked and alone, shivering in the cold wind and blind in the rising darkness._

TBC

Quote taken from Mary Renault's "Fire from Heaven"


	7. Six

A/N: I thought about ending the story here, but it somehow does not seem complete. There are several 'loose ends' that I plan to deal with in the next chapters. Thanks for hanging in there!

__

Six

Hephaistion snapped awake and stared around in confusion. He lay naked on the floor in a heap of cushions scattered around and underneath him. Recollection crashed on him in the next instant and he cursed the cruel fates who allowed him to remember what had passed between him and Bessos the previous night but nothing else about his life before he was imprisoned.

Shifting painfully, he shook his head trying to clear it, only to be rewarded with nausea and pain, which brought the awareness that he had a body. He strained to ignore his aching body; he pushed himself up on his elbows as best as he could, hindered as he was by his still bound wrists. Orange light battered the tent walls and he was alone. The air was stifling with the dulcet smell of costly incense that Hephaistion would henceforth loathe with a passion.

As awareness was gradually restored, thirst unquenchable began to plague him. His throat was so sore that he couldn't even swallow and every inch of his flesh was beset with a tremor of fatigue and revulsion. But he could not afford himself the extravagance of time to waste on lethargy and self-pity.

Bessos had forced some wine into him the previous night, not only spicy and strong, but, judging by his reaction, Hephaistion was convinced that it had contained some sleeping draught. It had promptly sent him into a mercifully dreamless slumber. With hindsight, Hephaistion realized that, out of all the debasement that he had endured, he was at least grateful for the dead sleep.

Because he had managed to rest after a fashion, he felt remotely capable to stand up, albeit shakily. When his head stopped spinning, he padded awkwardly to a nearby table which was laden with what looked like the remains of Bessos' breakfast and a plate of fruit that Hephaistion wasted no time in devouring, strenuous as it proved to swallow food.

He took a swig of water, looking about for anything that could become useful and discovered Bessos' clothing chest. It contained odd bits of clothing and jewellery but, rummaging further; he was rewarded with a small, ornate dagger. It looked more like a toy, bejewelled and dainty as it was, but the point glinted deadly and it proved to be sharp enough for Hephaistion to hew off his bonds. He winced at the pain when the leather bonds, slicing into the skin like they were part of it, peeled away to bare raw flesh.

A crowing outside alerted him and he raised his head instinctively. Eagles and hawks, he knew. The battle would have started already. Perhaps it was already over.

Hephaistion slipped into a shirt he found in the box. He hid the dagger, the only weapon he had found, inside an inner pocket.

He spied for more weapons or anything that could prove useful but he had been making more noise than he had thought. The tent flap was pulled aside and two guards strode into the tent, spears at the ready.

Cursing bitterly, Hephaistion flung the heavy water pitcher at them, realizing that he could not take them on in his weakened state and armed only with a small dagger.

The guards started shouting at him in Persian and arguing amongst themselves. Eventually, taking great pains to keep their distance, the two men led Hephaistion out of the tent beckoning him with the ends of their spears, and motioned him towards the area where he and the boy had been kept chained the previous day.

The sun was up and the heat was already stifling and for the first time, Hephaistion heard the roar of battle. It sounded to him like a distant storm, now getting closer, now drawing further away. A discord of voices, iron and animals, screaming and killing and dying all at once.

The boy was still there, lying in almost the same position as the previous evening. The night winds had covered him in dust and he looked diminished, as if the flesh had been picked off his bones by predators. Hephaistion's heart foundered at the sight. After he had been taken to Bessos' tent, the satrap had ordered his men to leave the boy alone, but without water or food and in the pitiful state that he was in, he could have easily died in the night.

One of the guards pressed a half-empty water-skin in his hand and, to Hephaistion's surprise; he waved him closer to the boy. It looked like Bessos had left orders for the guards to bring Hephaistion to the boy. At least he was honouring his word, Hephaistion thought grimly. Hoping that it wasn't too late, Hephaistion knelt by his side and turned him over as gingerly as he could, resting his lolling head in his lap. He cringed at the feel of the limp body, hoping that nothing was broken that would cause the youngster more pain.

The previous day, under Hephaistion's eyes, the boy had been raped and battered repeatedly, until nothing more remained of him than a mass of shivering flesh. One of the attackers had suggested that he be kept alive for the next day, after victory. For the beastly treatment that the boy had endured alone, Hephaistion hated Baktrians to the end of his days.

The choice to take Bessos' torment had been his own and mostly because he had known that the boy would not withstand another assault. But the youngster had not had the luxury of choice. Murderous rage grew in Hephaistion's heart and if he had it in his power, he would have hunted down each and every one of those responsible. As it was, he could only wish fervently that they met a slow, torturous death.

The boy's swollen throat would not allow the water to go past at first and it bubbled out, choking him and coursing down his chin and neck. But Hephaistion persisted, kneading the throat muscles lightly, until he was satisfied that some liquid trickled through. How long it took to coax him to take a few more drops, Hephaistion was not sure, but in the back of his mind, he became more and more aware of the din of battle drawing closer. It was cause for concern for the guards as well, whose uneasiness began to show.

And then, like water bursting out of a shattered dam, razing everything in its path, soldiers - Persian and Macedonian alike - invaded the camp from all directions. Hephaistion could only tell each nation apart because they wore a dissimilar garb. The noise built up to a thunderous level as they ran in utter disarray, their ranks broken, cavalry and infantry all clustered together. They heeded nothing in their path except saving their own lives or - in the case of their pursuers - taking them.

With some measure of satisfaction, Hephaistion noted the desperate, panic-stricken countenance that every Persian soldier wore and the blood-thirsty, vengeful mood of the Greeks.

The battle was won, Hephaistion knew then, but at the same time, he recognized the danger of being caught in the frenzy of destruction. Unarmed and dressed in Persian clothes, he was likely to be skewered by one of his own countrymen, who by now were killing and burning tents as the tumult swept through the camp. Without wasting another breath, Hephaistion lifted the boy's sagging body in his arms and made for the nearest shelter. The guards had fled at the first sign of trouble.

It was not a moment too soon because in the next instant a Macedonian cavalryman rode up to Hephaistion, swinging his sword and seeking to slice his head open. Gathering what strength he had left, Hephaistion ducked and tackled the riding man, successfully pulling him off the horse. He'd had the momentum of the animal to thank for a move that he would not have been otherwise strong enough to carry to its conclusion.

The soldier, uninjured and furious, leapt to his feet, freeing his dagger and turning to face Hephaistion, who raised his palms in a pacifying gesture.

'I'm Hephaistion Amyntor,' he shouted over the roaring noise, hoping that the man would recognize him. Dust blinded both of them and the pitiful light of the shelter made recognition almost impossible.

The cavalryman stared for a moment, incredulous. He sheathed his dagger instantly and rushed forward, clasping Hephaistion's hands.

'Gods be thanked, Hephaistion,' he yelled over the noise, 'we thought you were dead.'

'Well I'm not,' Hephaistion replied, 'but we'll all be if we don't get out of here soon. We won, is that right?' he asked, feeling his mouth stretch into a smile even before the other nodded enthusiastically.

'The Persians are eating up the ground, they're running so fast. The men were passing messages along that Darius fled the field first with his senior officers in tow.'

Hephaistion could not have hoped for better news.

'Well done, boy,' he slapped the other's back, laughing.

The soldier gave Hephaistion a perplexed look. 'Don't you recognize me? It's Sarios, from the Companions regiment.'

Hephaistion's mind raced. He understood that the moment he went back to his old life, this would be the kind of obstacle that he would have to fight at every step. He remembered nothing of this young man who regarded him with big round eyes, no doubt as his superior. How could he explain – if at all?

'Yes! Of course, Sarios,' he stammered, making a gesture that indicated confusion. 'I wasn't sure for a moment. You're covered in blood. Good to see you.'

Sarios regarded Hephaistion with a worried eye. 'Are you wounded? You look like death warmed over.'

'I'm alright,' Hephaistion waved the question away impatiently.

'I'd get you an escort now, but…' the soldier said dismally, waving his hand at the carnage outside, 'we'd be trampled. Better to wait til it's quietened down a bit. Then we'll ride back'

'No need, Sarios. Thank you,' Hephaistion replied.

'Take my horse, Hephaistion,' Sarios offered eagerly. 'By Herakles' beard – Alexander will jump out of his skin when he sees you,' Sarios added with a wide smile. 'They say he's been mad with grief ever since you went missing.'

The news was welcome to Hephaistion but nevertheless he shuddered inwardly at the thought of what Alexander would say if he ever found out what Bessos had done.

'There is something you can do,' Hephaistion pointed to the boy, who lay in a heap next to the entrance of a tent, 'You have to take him back to camp with you. Make sure that he is cared for like one of our own. I owe him my life.'

It was all Hephaistion had to say for the soldier's gaze to change from disgusted pity to respect. 'I'll see to it. Trust me, Hephaistion,' he said resolutely.

It was only afterwards that the meaning of the words dawned on Sarios.

'But where are you going?' he protested, a great deal of anxiety in his voice. 'I can't leave without you,' he almost squealed, his face mirroring the desperation he felt at the prospect, 'Alexander will have my skin if he finds out that I saw you and left you behind.'

'He won't find out at least for a while,' Hephaistion hoped he sounded sure enough of himself. 'I have something to do first.'

Then he added urgently, 'Hurry up. Or he'll die and I'll have your skin before Alexander gets to you.'

With a badly concealed look of doubt, Sarios gently lifted the Persian in his arms. The boy's head hung lifelessly and Hephaistion checked that he was breathing. Sarios carried him over to where his horse had stopped, rider-less and confused, and was snorting agitatedly at the clamour surrounding him. He settled the boy gingerly across the saddle cloth and climbed beside him. Hephaistion smiled encouragingly before Sarios spurred the beast on, glancing behind apprehensively as he rode away.

Hephaistion breathed a sigh of relief and finally allowed himself to sink his quivering frame against a tent pole. He had not wanted to show Sarios how dreadful he really felt; otherwise the young man would have never left. At least the Persian boy would be cared for – if Sarios made it back to the camp unharmed. Hephaistion knew that the horse could not have carried all of them.

The wave of retreating Persians had thickened and so had the numbers of those who gave chase. Careful to avoid open areas, Hephaistion made his way, painfully and barely able to stand, back to Bessos' tent. Once he reached his destination, he made sure that no one was there, before he went in. He had made up his mind to do this when Sarios' had told him that the senior Persian generals were fleeing in Darius' tow. Bessos would not be returning here any time soon.

The Macedonians would waste not time sacking the richer tents soon and it was better to be done by then, Hephaistion reasoned. He searched about briefly until he saw what he was looking for: rolled in a corner were map scrolls.

He spread them open one by one, smiling to himself at the wealth of information they revealed: all of Bessos' strongholds in Baktria, supply points, roads and detailed accounts of the number of forces he held in every fort. In short, vital statistics that Alexander would value just as much as his men would value the gold they would sack from this tent.

Hours later, Hephaistion finally rode back to the Macedonian camp, escorted by a unit of soldiers that Sarios had gathered and carrying his treasure of information with him.

The aftermath of battle was the cruellest of times. A price written in blood that victors and losers alike had to pay. It felt like that to Hephaistion, not because he remembered when his last battle had occurred, but because it was plain from the constant agony and death that surrounded him at every step as he made his way to the hospital tents.

His men, overly elated at having their commander back, had insisted that he get some medical attention, at least for the hurts that were visible to their eyes. Hephaistion had refused at first - too overwhelmed by their welcome and finally allowing himself to unwind somewhat - adamant that all he really needed was rest. But his men would not hear of it and they had threatened to drag a doctor away from the other wounded. Knowing what a precious commodity healers were after any battle, Hephaistion had agreed to go, coaxing one of his men into showing him the way. Not one of them had realised that Hephaistion had no memory of his way around the camp.

On the way, hardly anyone paid attention to one more wounded man except those who were hale enough to notice and recognize him. After several stops where words of welcome were exchanged, Hephaistion's strength had waned abruptly and his escort had to support him along. He had allowed his mind to slacken off the hold it had on his body since he had arrived on friendly territory and he recognized that he was on the verge of collapse.

But just as suddenly as his energy dipped, he forced himself to regain his foothold when he saw a cluster of riders approaching in a whirl of dust. When they drew closer, Hephaistion saw their elaborate armour, visible even though it was marred by the ravages of battle.

A deafening cheer rose from all the men present but even before that, Hephaistion knew. He recognized the horse before he recognized the rider: the fiery black stallion in his vision, although considerably older now. And riding it, helmet-less and irresistible like a force of nature, was Alexander.

Even covered in blood and dust as he was, there was still something about the shorter man that told Hephaistion he could not be mistaken. If it had been anyone else, Hephaistion would have liked to make sure. He would have sat and observed a while, making up his own mind. But not now – and not with this man. .

Those men who could stand flocked around Alexander like a pack of tame lions, and it took him a while to even be able to dismount, such was the crowding surrounding him. And afterwards, when he was on the ground, he still stopped and talked to each man. To Hephaistion's eyes, who observed from a distance, it seemed that Alexander was amidst his most beloved kinsmen. And he decided that it was better to stay out of sight, for fear of shattering such an intimate moment.

He wondered if Alexander knew of his return. The men, in their contagious enthusiasm, had the news flying around the camp as soon as Hephaistion had arrived back.

Presently, a man rushed up to Alexander and pointed to where Hephaistion had stopped to survey the scene. It was clear that it was the first time the King had the news because he stopped mid-sentence, his lively demeanour becoming very still.

For Hephaistion time ground to a breathless halt in the moment that it took Alexander to turn towards him, his body language telltale of hesitation and disbelief, maybe even fear of what he would find. Hephaistion's breath caught when their eyes met for the first time. For indeed it felt like the first time to Hephaistion.

In the instant it took for Alexander to fly and close the distance between them, Hephaistion understood why it was that he loved this man. Without even having to remember the past, one look at Alexander's eyes told him everything. The intensity, the passion, the incredible stamina burned there with an everlasting flame that devoured Hephaistion whole.

Alexander did not say a word, but it was plain that in that moment, everything and everyone else ceased to exist for him. Except Hephaistion. He stopped less than an arm' length away and Hephaistion felt more than saw a tremor that proved to him that the being standing before him, as divine as it looked, was still human.

With a sigh only they could hear, Alexander put his arms around Hephaistion's wider shoulders and pulled him into an embrace so tight that Hephaistion thought his very soul was being squeezed out. Joy as inexplicable in the absence of memory as it was longed-for drowned him.

'Phai,' the whisper, he knew, was meant for his ears alone but Hephaistion cared not a bit that the whole of the Macedonian army was watching. Nor did he hear them cheer. He was aware only of how Alexander's body felt, pressing against his, and he laid his head instinctively on his shoulder, in a gesture that seemed to him normal beyond the need for memory.

It was easy for Hephaistion to understand how oblivious Icarus had felt, so close to the sun, with his wings melting away yet happily giving in to the deadly bliss. The knowledge of having dared to tread beyond the point of no return was pushed to the farthest corner of his mind and he knew that now that he had come so far, there was no going back.

TBC

Next chapter: Alexander and Hephaistion have to deal with the aftermath of victory, imprisonment and the challenge of finding each other.


	8. Seven

Again I am humbled by the generosity of your reviews and I hope you like this chapter. Thank you from the bottom of my heart!

_Seven_

The clamor of festivity resounded from all sides of the camp, drunken voices rising and falling discordantly – and no less triumphantly - in song and merriment.

Alexander had spent a long time among the wounded and dying, talking to them and offering such comfort as he knew his words of praise and gratitude would give. With the burden of death still heavy on his shoulders, he moved on to the rejoin the living, stopping off at several points around the camp to toast with the troops, then retiring to a more private celebration with his senior officers. The fever of the day was smothered in wine and soon after midnight, their energy dipped suddenly. One by one the generals finally staggered or were carried out of Alexander's tent.

Glad to be finally alone, Alexander left his tent and made his way to Hephaistion's, his step heavy with the weariness that had finally caught up with him. He ached to be with Hephaistion, who had been firmly confined to bed by the doctors. At that point, Alexander wanted nothing more than to end this day by sliding in bed next to Hephaistion and sleeping the sleep of the blessed.

Thus it was with no small measure of surprise when he found Hephaistion's lamp burning and his friend sitting up in bed, wrapped in his blanket and hugging his knees to his chest. Alexander winced inwardly at the sight of his friend's lean, muscular body, now diminished into a thinned out frame that bore witness to the hardships of the weeks of imprisonment.

Hephaistion's eyes were empty and rimmed red with the absence of sleep and his haunted expression frightened Alexander.

'Phai, you're not sleeping… are you alright?'

The sound of his voice seemed to suck Hephaistion from a trance. He looked disoriented and Alexander felt the tired eyes study him with curiosity and an intensity he had not felt in years.

'I was hungry,' Hephaistion finally answered. 'But I lost my appetite.' Disheartened, he waved at the tray of untouched food on the bedside table.

Alexander poured a cup of wine and handed it to Hephaistion.

'I don't think that I can handle more wine tonight, or else tomorrow my head will burst,' he said easily, sinking down on the bed. Without further ado, he started to unlace his sandals and shook them off his feet.

'Gods, I need a bath,' he muttered, sniffing himself, 'but at this hour…. And besides, I don't want to waste the time. The sooner I get into bed with you the better,' he smiled roguishly up at Hephaistion, who continued to regard him with wonderment and far-away expression that Alexander found both enthralling and disquieting.

'Phai? What is it?'

Hephaistion looked right through Alexander, his fingers curling around the wine cup but completely oblivious to its presence.

'When they brought me the food, they said it was my favorite,' he said tonelessly.

'Yes, it is your favorite,' Alexander replied wryly, glancing briefly at the tray. 'You and your chickens. Why won't you eat it?'

Hephaistion shook his head.

'I can't remember…' he whispered, resting his forehead on his knees.

As if struck by an unseen blade. Alexander sat there, rooted to the spot, praying that he had heard wrong.

'What can't you remember?' he found himself asking in a voice so small that he barely recognized it as his own. 'Your favorite food?'

Hephaistion's face remained hidden, but he continued to shake his head. He still held the wine goblet in his hand.

'Nothing? You remember nothing?' Alexander said finally, incredulously, when he began to suspect that if the words had to come out of Hephaistion's mouth, the cruelty of it would crush his mind.

'It was the head wound, wasn't it.' It was not a question.

Hephaistion nodded without lifting his head.

A deadly chill crept into Alexander's bones. How curious, he thought with frightening calm, even though not entirely improbable, that the gods should give with one hand while taking away with the other.

He opened his mouth but no words came forth. Indeed, he could think of nothing to say that would soothe or encourage.

'Do you remember me… us?' the words left Alexander's mouth before he even considered biting them back.

He berated himself for his inability to find the fitting words of consolation and for asking such foolish questions. Nothing would ease this pain. Neither his nor Hephaistion's. Because it was not the same pain they felt. They were both lost in their own way, to their own demons.

But while Alexander knew where he belonged, Hephaistion floated in a storm of uncertainty. So Alexander did the only thing he knew: he acted on his instinct. He rid himself of his clothes quickly, put out the lamp and climbed into bed. Hephaistion had curled on his side, facing away, in a posture of supplication, as if he was waiting for the judgment to be passed. Alexander met little resistance when he arranged his body around Hephaistion's, mindful of his friend's hurts.

'We will beat this,' he murmured into Hephaistion's hair, but his effort to sound strong and unaffected had been too great and his voice broke and dropped to a whisper.

'I don't know yet how - but there has to be a way. And for now, all that matters is that you are here with me. You are safe and _I_ love you,' he said with quiet determination.

Hephaistion's frame twitched in Alexander's embrace. 'Do not take this upon yourself,' he pleaded.

Alexander did not answer immediately instead he wrapped his arms even tighter around Hephaistion who hissed faintly until Alexander realized he was pressing some or other wound on Hephaistion's back and loosened his hold.

'When you went missing, I realized that without you, I was nothing,' he said it as if it was the most natural or inevitable conclusion. 'You will remember - if it is the last thing I do. Because I will be your memory. And if you don't remember, you shall learn anew. We both shall.'

Gradually, Hephaistion's taut muscles relaxed and they stayed like that for a long time, neither sleeping nor talking but merely enjoying the silence and each other's presence. Often Alexander caressed Hephaistion's hair and arms, just to remind himself that it wasn't a dream.

Late morning found them still entwined and a little more than stiff from sleeping draped around each other.

Alexander extricated himself carefully from Hephaistion's embrace, shaking the numbness from his limbs with a few brisk moves. He stuck his head out of the tent. The guard stood to attention and his squire, no doubt having been informed where the king had spent the night, came running.

'Have the slaves prepare me a bath in my tent,' he instructed the boy before turning to the guard. 'Should anyone come to see Hephaistion, have them announced first.'

It was the best way for Hephaistion to learn the names of those of his friends who would no doubt come to enquire after his health. Hephaistion had not needed to tell Alexander that he wanted his loss of memory to be kept a secret. While it might not necessarily be his case, perhaps many of the men would find it hard to place their trust in a commander whose memory had been so severely affected. Also, there were those with whom Hephaistion's career advance did not sit well and would no doubt desire to take advantage of his predicament. It was a delicate situation and one that Alexander had not yet fathomed how to best deal with. The only thing he knew was that they would have to adapt as they went along. Decidedly, it would be much easier for Hephaistion to resume his duties than to remember the names and faces of all the men he had dealt with.

He looked upon the face of his sleeping lover and finally believed that Hephaistion was truly there and that his eyes were not just obeying some cruel trick of light. To Alexander he looked like a boy again, young and with no worries weighing on him, peacefully breathing in restful sleep and his knowledge that he was loved. On impulse, Alexander pushed Hephaistion's hair aside, intent on pressing a kiss just inside his neck, under his ear, in Hephaistion's favorite spot. But as he leaned in, he noticed the sickening hue of the flesh. Horrified, he lifted more of Hephaistion's hair to reveal purple and blackening finger marks on his neck, as if someone had tried to strangle him and had almost succeeded.

Fiercely, he ripped the blanket away to uncover the rest of Hephaistion's body and soon he was staring at a map of whip scores and bites that adorned Hephaistion's back and shoulders like ritual markings. He let out a loud gasp and let the blanket fall back, as if he'd revealed too much of a deadly secret. His mind was tumbling over itself with the possibilities of what could have happened until he became aware of Hephaistion blinking at him through sleep-narrowed eyes.

'Who tried to strangle you?' Alexander burst out without giving Hephaistion a chance to even open his mouth. 'Did they torture you? Gods, was this the thanks I got for treating Darius family so well?'

'They treated me well enough,' Hephaistion defended, suddenly awake and alert to Alexander's fierce reaction. 'But I tried to escape and there was a scuffle….'

'But they beat you. Your back…,' Alexander paced around breathlessly, highly disturbed.

'Well, I did kill a few of them, so what did you expect them to do?' Hephaistion said in a placating tone, but anxiety was written all over his face. 'In all fairness, what would _you_ have done? I'm surprised they didn't kill me.'

Alexander ceased his pacing, not entirely satisfied with the answer and furious at the thought of Hephaistion being mistreated. He studied Hephaistion's expression, noted his white lips and an apprehension that he could not explain, but decided not to press the issued further for now.

'I brought you something,' Hephaistion said by way of changing the subject.

'You brought me something?' Alexander's mouth stretched in an incredulous half-smile. 'You're talking like you went away on a pleasure trip and brought me a gift.'

'Well, it is a gift,' Hephaistion said smugly. 'And one that will probably delight you more than a trinket. Look there,' he pointed to a clay pot, where his squire had placed Bessos' maps.

Alexander walked over and retrieved one of them. He spread it on the table, his eyes growing large as saucers as he studied it.

'You – what…? Do you realize how important this is? This is treasure,' he turned to Hephaistion who was watching him with an amused expression, no doubt glad that the storm had passed.

'I thought they might prove useful,' Hephaistion replied with faked self-importance.

'Where did you get them? In Zeus' name, did they allow you free access to their archives? What did you do? Charm the mapmaker?'

'Something like that,' Hephaistion replied, blinking innocently, 'after so many years, it was about time I learned to put my looks to good use.'

'You're impossible,' Alexander laughed, but the fleeting shadow that passed across Hephaistion's features, although veiled, did not go unnoticed.

With some effort, Hephaistion stood up from bed, stretching as much as his injuries allowed and letting out a hearty curse.

'Weren't you confined to bed by the doctors?' Alexander cautioned. The sight of Hephaistion's back and neck injuries still plagued him.

'Somehow I don't think I ever listened to doctors, even if I can't remember it,' Hephaistion said arching an eyebrow.

Alexander shrugged.

'You're too old to change.' He noticed that the light-hearted banter dissipated Hephaistion's unease and he wondered what it was that still troubled his friend so much beside the loss of his memory.

'I want to show you something,' Hephaistion said in a secretive tone.

'What? Is there something else you sacked from the Persians?'

Hephaistion's mien was enigmatic but cheerless and minutes later, they were walking outside in the bustling camp. Hephaistion limped along slowly.

'I hope it's not too far, I don't relish the prospect of carrying you,' Alexander joked.

'We're almost there,' Hephaistion said, slightly out of breath.

He led Alexander to the squires' tents. Once inside, Hephaistion conferred briefly with one of the boys, who beckoned towards a figure lying on a camp cot. Hephaistion's eyes were alight when he turned to Alexander and motioned him closer. The boy lying on the bed seemed to be sleeping but as he got closer, Alexander realized it was because he had been badly beaten and his lids were hideously swollen. Hephaistion lowered himself on the bed and smoothed away a strand of the boy's long black hair before taking hold of his thin hand and placing it between his own palms. He did not say a word, but Alexander soon perceived moisture around the boy's battered eyes.

'He cared for my wounds and helped me when I tried to escape,' Hephaistion explained, although Alexander had begun to suspect as much. 'The surgeon says he should be alright in a week or so. He is mute so I never learned his name.'

An inexplicable shiver of jealousy, suppressed in shame, stabbed through Alexander's heart when he saw the affection that passed between the two. Even when he expressed his words of thanks he felt them inadequate. This boy was the only kind person Hephaistion remembered.

They spent a little more time with him before Alexander finally coaxed a sore and ashen-faced Hephaistion that it was time he looked after his own health.

Back in Hephaistion's tent, Alexander kept vigil long after his lover had nodded off again. He watched Hephaistion's brow knit in restless sleep and vowed to solve the mystery of Hephaistion's troubles.

When Alexander finally got back to his own tent, the bath water had long since gone cold.

Babylon was the mother of all whores, everyone knew that. But Alexander did not care, he loved the city. He had declared two weeks of holiday for everyone and, at the repeated urging of his generals, had set about trying his hardest to rest and enjoy his good fortune.

The good fortune had come at a price, though.

Hephaistion had slipped back into his duties a lot more seamlessly than Alexander had initially assumed. His men had accepted the fact that he had been wounded and treated badly by the Persians and that, like everyone in that situation, had needed some time to re-adjust. Only Alexander knew the extent of the effort that Hephaistion had put into resuming the semblance of normality and just how taxing it had proved. But if the gods had to be thanked for their favors, it was because Hephaistion had healed in body almost entirely. Nothing but the scars would remind them of Hephaistion's imprisonment.

On the other hand, Hephaistion's memory did not seem to be improving. Fragments of recollection that he almost grasped at times ended up frustrating Hephaistion no end, especially since what they now called his 'new memories' he could recall at will and with extreme accuracy. Alexander had recounted numerous episodes from their lives, from important battles to silly little anecdotes. Watching how Hephaistion's brow scrunched up in concentration sometimes, Alexander could wager that the information was stored and classified with the precision that had always defined his friend.

But what worried Alexander even more was a lingering feeling that most times he succeeded in pushing back into the recesses of his mind, but which eventually found its worming way out, gnawing at Alexander's sanity: he was convinced that Hephaistion was hiding something, not out of malice - he would have never suspected that - but rather out of a desire to protect Alexander.

Sure enough, Hephaistion seemed as content as one could be, showered with far too much attention from the king, so much so that he had actually chosen a bedroom in the Babylon palace as far away from the royal bedchamber as possible. He claimed that he would never live down the teasing of the other generals if he spent night and day alongside Alexander.

Except that since his return, Hephaistion had shied away from intimacy. To Alexander's surprise – who had always been the one who needed less physical love of the two of them - Hephaistion's appetite had seemed to have taken a disturbing plunge. There was nothing wrong physically, as Alexander had learned. He had got Hephaistion well on the way several times, but every time things got heated, his lover would pull away, flushed and visibly willing himself to control his desire.

In the beginning, Alexander had not protested much. They slept in the same bed for many nights, holding each other, something that had not happened since they were boys, but eventually, in the privacy offered by the huge Babylon palace, Alexander had started to wonder why it was that Hephaistion would not spend the nights with him anymore and had wanted to take a bedroom so far away from his own. Again, Alexander had conceded, not wishing to press the issue.

It was not often that he made his way to Hephaistion's chambers, but on a night of celebration, he felt suddenly lonely and left his generals to party on without him. Hephaistion had been out the whole day on some assignment that he'd volunteered for since Ptolemy had taken his holiday very seriously, so he had missed the feast.

When Alexander arrived, he found a newly-arrived Hephaistion fingering a scroll, stroking it as if it were something precious and too delicate for his callused hands.

'A letter from my father,' Hephaistion explained half apologetically, when he realized that Alexander must have been observing him for a while. He set it down carefully and looked at Alexander expectantly, his eyes sparkling. More and more since his return, Alexander had noted a dullness in Hephaistion's eyes that had not been there before his imprisonment.

Seeing him now, Alexander misread the look and walked right across the room and, without further ado, he took Hephaistion's head between his palms and pressed a shy kiss to his lips. Hephaistion's lips were cold and he felt them tremble at the touch.

'I want you to remember _us _tonight' Alexander breathed in a thicker than normal voice. He leaned in further, his hand trailing down Hephaistion's back, pulling him closer and pressing their bodies together. 'Please, let me help you remember us.'

He kissed Hephaistion again, deeper this time and he heard him growl low in his throat. Hephaistion responded to the kiss, his hands shooting up to clutch Alexander's head, plying it to his whim, so he could get a better taste. Almost at once, their bodies reacted to each other but as he ground his hips against Hephaistion's, Alexander felt his friend's back muscles knot into steel and he pulled backwards forcefully, letting out a groan.

'What is it?' Alexander implored, out of breath with excitement and growing frustration.

Hephaistion sighed, avoiding Alexander's eyes and gently disentangled himself from the embrace. 'I'm sorry, Alexander.….'

He busied himself with unfastening his travel cloak, no doubt to mask a tremor that Alexander's eyes did not miss.

'Don't give me that,' Alexander cried. 'You cannot expect me to believe that you're insecure about me. It's been almost a month since you've been back. Even with your memory loss, I made it plain how I feel about us.'

'But I am anxious, and I cannot help it,' Hephaistion protested, throwing Alexander a look full of inexplicable grit.

'Not nearly good enough Hephaistion,' Alexander countered. 'You can lie to your other friends, who I must say do suspect that something is wrong, but won't say it. But not to me. Tell me what it is? You forgot that you loved me? You no longer desire me? Funny, even with your memory gone, your body responded….

Before Alexander could finish, Hephaistion turned sickly pale so quickly that Alexander rushed to steady him if he collapsed.

'My body can respond to a whole lot of things, Alexander,' he hissed with such malice that Alexander recoiled. 'Don't try to manipulate me, it will not work.'

'I am not manipulating you, I am merely trying to understand….,'

'You cannot understand!' Hephaistion was more than adamant.

'No, I cannot! Because you won't let me! For the love of Zeus I cannot understand why you keep it all bottled up inside. How much longer are you planning to do that? Will I have to pry it out of you, so that it won't make you rot inside?'

When Hephaistion remained silent, Alexander roared. ' I will have an answer, Hephaistion.'

'Enough, Alexander. Please.' the defiant edge suddenly dropped from Hephaistion's tone. It seemed like all he wanted now was to have this conversation over with. Alexander went off again.

'You cannot hide it from me, Hephaistion. What kind of fool do you think I am? Those whip scores and those bite marks on your skin…. Gods! Those red finger imprints on your neck….'

'Alexander – stop…' Hephaistion pleaded, a warning edge in his voice. Just as a moment ago he had sounded defeated, Hephaistion's eyes glazed over with wrath like they held no recognition of Alexander.

But Alexander pressed on, oblivious to the storm he was unleashing.

'You told me they beat you because you tried to escape. But you lied, didn't you. You were raped. Was it Darius? Who in the name of….'

His words were knocked out of him as Hephaistion pitched forward and tackled him to the ground. Caught by surprise, Alexander was no match for the bigger man, who, after effectively immobilizing him, straddled his waist, pinning his arms on both sides of his head.

'I. Told. You. To. Stop,' he ground out. Never before had Alexander seen such fury in his friend's demeanor, nor such gratuitous violence.

Alexander took one gulp of air, his mind frantically dicing between the desire to carry on speaking and the instinct of conservation that advised him to clamp his mouth shut and ride out the storm.

'Phaistion, I want to help you. Why won't you let me? Why are you shutting me out?' he said in as commanding a tone as he could muster, still pinned under Hephaistion's weight, hoping his words would snap his friend out of his madness. And indeed just as abruptly as he had attacked him, Hephaistion released Alexander's arms and stood up, breathing heavily and running his hands frantically through is hair.

He turned his back to Alexander, who got up slowly, rubbing an abused shoulder, his face wrung with pity. He gripped Hephaistion's arm, trying to spin him around.

'Let me go, Alexander. You've done enough damage already. Have me tried for treason for attacking you, my King, but don't again let me hear you make your conclusions for me.' Exhaustion and defeat dripped from Hephaistion's every word.

'I will not have you tried for treason,' Alexander whispered, letting go of Hephaistion's arm. 'You should know better than that.'

'Should I now?' Hephaistion turned, his eyes blazing now.

Privately, Alexander preferred this furious look to the glazed over, possessed eyes of only moments ago.

He exhaled loudly, shaking his head, then said deliberately, 'Yes, you should know better. I gave you ample opportunity these past few weeks.'

The fire burned low in Hephaistion's eyes but not for a moment did he leave Alexander's.

'What happened was my choice alone,' he said quietly. 'I did it to save the boy's life.'

'I can understand…' Alexander began.

'No you don't, Alexander,' Hephaistion interrupted. His voice was silky and frightfully calm now, but his eyes flashed with ice-cold fire, drawing Alexander in and spitting him out again.

'How could you? I consented to everything Bessos did to me. I never objected when he flogged and bit me, when he sucked at my blood and made me taste it from his tongue. Fair enough. But what I'm talking about has nothing to do with the pain and the cruelty.'

He fixed Alexander with a stare that any other day would have made the King's knees turn to water He prayed to have the strength to tell Hephaistion to stop. But he had not the right to spare himself the torment that Hephaistion had endured – not if they were to be one again.

'In the throes of his passion, he gripped my throat and strangled me until I was convinced that I caught a glimpse of Hades. And knowing fully well that I was dying, and my blood slowing and my lungs screaming for air - my body responded to him, and I begged him - choking - not to stop. And you believe that I can share your bed again, after you know how filthy and tainted I am?'

'No, Alexander,' Hephaistion shook his head with a doleful smile, 'you don't understand. Bessos was right, you know. He drove himself into my mind and soul, and he told me so afterwards. He knew I would not forget. But in my foolishness, I thought that your touch would be enough to heal. Only now I see it clearly: I cannot let you be touched by this darkness. I will not use you to chase away his ghost.'

For the second time since Hephaistion's return, Alexander could find no words. He pressed his palms hard to his eyes to blot out he image that, cruelly, played in his mind's eye again and again. He had learned to deal with Hephaistion's memory loss and he willed himself to deal with this too. Except that he couldn't do it as quickly as he wished. His first instinct was to hunt Bessos down and exact the harshest punishment imaginable.

But he realized that no matter what he did, it would not heal Hephaistion's soul, nor undo what had been done to him. To them.

He sat on Hephaistion's bed, slouching helplessly under the burden of knowledge. It seemed to Alexander that each moment longer of silence sucked Hephaistion further away from him.

Eventually, Hephaistion stood and threw his cloak back on, making ready to leave. The flutter of movement extricated Alexander from his trance.

'Where are you going? This is your bedroom.'

'I don't know, Alexander,' the words were spoken with calm but infinite sadness. 'Out. And away from here.'

'Please, don't go,' the plea tore from Alexander's chest before he was even ready to acknowledge it and Hephaistion turned and looked at him sharply.

'Please let me stay with you,' Alexander pled, then he quickly added. 'Just to sleep, if you wish it. I will ask for nothing else until you decide it is time.'

'You desire me still? Even after what I told you?' Hephaistion's surprise was genuine.

'I don't know what I can do to force you to give up the idea that you are sullied and unworthy. But I would do it. It would not help to order you as your King, but instead I'd like to show you. Only you won't let me. '

He closed the distance between them and unclasped Hephaistion's cloak.

'Things may not be the same between us after tonight,' he said deliberately as he undressed Hephaistion slowly and purposefully. He did not explain what he meant, although he felt the other man's unspoken question, 'but we will never know unless we try.'

'You see, Phai, you were wrong. I wish you would find it, if not in your memory, at least in your heart, to know that it takes more than that to drive y_ou_ away from me. So don't try to force the hand of the Fates. Whatever trials we are meant to go through, we will do so together.'

Hephaistion stared at Alexander for a long moment. 'You are a strange man, Alexander.'

He said not another word, nor did he make a move to push Alexander away this time. He let Alexander guide him with the patience of a loving tutor and when they lay tangled together, spent after hours of love, Hephaistion's eyes lit up with almost recognition.

TBC

Epilogue to follow


	9. Epilogue

_This story got harder to write as I went along. In spite of what I'd planned, the epilogue was by far the hardest because of the story lines that had to tie. I hope I've managed to pull it off._

_Thank you from the bottom of my heart, for the lovely words of encouragement that kept me at my table, happily writing away. I wish any writer this kind of bliss._

_Epilogue_

Baktria - 2 Years Later

In the remains of the sunset, Hephaistion surveyed the small camp below. Dappled shadows rendered their few tents unremarkable against the rocky landscape and it was so quiet that Hephaistion could wager that if he listened hard enough, he would hear heaven.

The small party had left the Valley of the Benefactors three days ago at sunrise and, according to the guides, their destination lay another half day's march ahead. It had proven difficult to find a guide who spoke the language of the hillside tribe. Being so far off the beaten track they had been informed that, to their good fortune, even bandits avoided the back roads, there being nothing to steal more than a horse or some fairly useless artefacts.

The tribe they were going to were artisans - famous for their craft once - who made their living by trading their art. But they could be fierce and proud enough, as Hephaistion had learned.

In the beginning, because Hephaistion had squires serving him, the boy had little to do. Soon, Hephaistion had realized that idleness frustrated the young man, who even though had learned to understand Greek, had not the privilege of being able to communicate through speech. Kept by necessity on the fringes of everything that happened in their mobile empire, he attended the classes the Kallisthenes held for the young squires, listening and trying to pick up whatever he could. However, he could neither ask questions nor request perfecting of his skills.

One day, quite unexpectedly; one of the squires brought Hephaistion a parchment with the portrait of a young man on it.

'It's you,' Hephaistion had said incredulously studying the uncanny likeness of the squire's face to the sketch. 'I had no idea that he could draw like that.'

From that day onwards, not a day had passed that Iras – the name given to the boy by the squires, which had stuck and seemed to please its owner – was not surrounded by parchment and ink. He honed his skill daily by drawing small scenes that he observed around the camp.

His chief talent though proved to be in the rendering of human faces. He had a gift for capturing the exact expression that defined the person he was drawing and before long, he had all ranks of soldiers, officers and civilians standing in line to have their faces sketched, some to be sent home alongside letters, some to be given as keepsakes to lovers or friends.

Even senior commanders were often employing his skill: Philotas commissioned no less than five sketches that he gifted to his mistresses and Ptolemy had one of himself sent to his favourite courtesan.

Hephaistion however, watched all this with interest and thought ahead to the boy's future. It would be useful to have Iras formally trained in a trade, under the instruction of the King's architect, Aristobulus. The man, upon being showed Iras' sketches, had been impressed and had agreed to help. His instruction could begin as soon as he wished.

He broke the news to Iras and the boy's eyes lit with gratitude. But Hephaistion had perceived something there, not quite sadness, not quite melancholy, but rather a longing that he had seen before and he could not explain.

'Even without speech, it would benefit you greatly.'

Iras had frozen then, remembering his station, he had bowed deeply in thankfulness.

'You don't want this, do you?' Hephaistion had probed gently. 'It's alright, I won't think it ungrateful.' Iras' doe eyes dropped and he shook his head.

'Will you show me why?'

Iras nodded and glanced at Hephaistion's writing table. One of Bessos' maps lay spread there and he walked up to it, his brows crunching in concentration in the attempt to read it. Eventually, Hephaistion pointed to their location.

'We are here.'

Wearied and angry after a nearly fruitless year of playing hide-and-seek with Bessos, Alexander had decided to spend the winter in the Valley of the Benefactors, with an ancient people whom he had admired from his boyhood reading. Iras' finger traced from their location northwards along the map until he pinpointed a settlement, so insignificant it had not even been graced with a name.

Hephaistion understood immediately.

'Your home? '

Iras nodded.

'Are you sure it's as close as this?'

Again the boy assented hastily, his excitement barely contained, although mixed with a tinge of apprehension.

So - it ends here, Hephaistion had thought, rather grimly. Now he understood the reason behind Ira's earlier hesitation and in his mind, the pieces fell into place. He had observed the young man often enough and had noticed that Iras, even when given his freedom and having found his calling in art, still looked at times, unconsciously, as if he was caged. Iras idolized Hephaistion and it had taken many months and a lot of insistence to get Iras over the habit of making deep reverence.

It did not surprise Hephaistion at all that he regretted Iras' eagerness to return to his own people. Certainly, after the years of slavery and trekking with Alexander's army from here to there, Hephaistion could not begrudge this decision. But he had grown attached to the boy, even if he had not been very good at showing it and even if his duties had more often than not taken him away.

Iras had always been there upon his return, with his soothing hands and calming presence, ready to give him whatever he wanted. Only Hephaistion never took it. It would have been easy indeed. Even Alexander had asked Hephaistion about it, with no jealousy or resentment. There were even those who said that Alexander had taken Bagoas as a lover because Hephaistion had Iras. But after Iras' ordeal at the hands of first Bessos, as his slave, then his soldiers, when they were re-captured, Hephaistion could simply not bring himself to think of hurting Iras, not even in the act of love. It was all quite irrational and silly, Hephaistion understood, because Iras had made it perfectly clear that he was more than willing.

There was only one thing to do. So Hephaistion had asked Alexander's leave to spare him for a few days so he could escort Iras personally to his village.

And now, with one night to go before reaching Iras' village, Hephaistion had left his small party behind, busy with pitching the tents and cooking supper, and climbed to the top of the highest hill to think, alone. The sun scalded the horizon for a moment longer before it disappeared and Hephaistion thought it would be wiser to climb down while there was still enough light to find his way.

He felt movement behind him and he turned to find Iras standing there with an uncertain, troubled look on his face and a lantern in his hand. The boy had come looking for him, after seeing him climb the steep hill in search of solitude. He was flushed with the effort and his face was covered in a film of sweat. Hephaistion smiled at his concern, at the same time noting – as if for the first time - how much more confident and grown the boy looked now that he had shed the gawkiness of early teenage years.

Like it was the most familiar thing in the world, Iras knelt behind Hephaistion and parted his long hair, pushing it out of the way. He always did that when he wanted to massage him, kneading the neck first then moving slowly down Hephaistion's spine.

Only this time Iras' touch was more a caress and it was so completely different than how he usually did it that Hephaistion found his muscles stiffening instead of relaxing. Next, Iras' hands travelled across his shoulders and insinuated themselves under Hephaistion's clothing, rubbing slow circles into his upper chest. The touch was heavy with yearning and Hephaistion felt the heat of Iras' breath on his exposed neck before the butterfly soft brush of lips. Hephaistion closed his eyes and sighed. How could he find it his power to refuse that which he was being so freely offered? Especially on this night.

He caught Iras' head between his hands and, arching his neck, he brought the boy's mouth against his own and kissed him hard, biting his lips. It felt strange to find only a stump of tongue battling his own, but the boy's mouth tasted sweet and what little had remained of Hephaistion's resistance shattered.

He spun around seizing Iras' upper arm and torso in a powerful grip and lowered him onto the ground, crushing his weight onto the lighter frame. He wanted Iras to have no illusion about how gentle he would be and that if the boy changed his mind, there was still time for him to do so. But only a content moan issued from low in Iras' throat as he lifted his head, seeking Hephaistion's lips, his hands frantically seeking purchase around the older man's neck. They made love desperately, discovering each other and saying good-bye at the same time, the open sky above and the rock still warm from the sun scraping their heated skins.

And with all that felt right between them, Hephaistion finally understood the deep sadness that Alexander often spoke about in the aftermath of love.

It was not until the next day, when Iras' village came within sight that Hephaistion felt a sharp stab of pain at the inevitable parting.

The village still stood but it looked like it had been slowly falling into decay if one were to judge by the houses that stood half in ruin and the hollow wind that whistled through the gaping windows.

The sight of the armed horsemen riding into the village sent the few people who still inhabited the place scampering about frantically, no doubt thinking that their settlement was being invaded.

Iras glanced about with eyes veiled with remembrance and Hephaistion knew that the last time he had been here, his brothers and himself had been dragged away in chains by Bessos' men. Iras' brothers had met their death at the hands of Bessos for rebellion and Iras had become the satrap's latest plaything.

Hephaistion read the apprehension and pity in Iras' eyes and set his hand on the boy's shoulder to steady him. At the same time, he rebuked himself for thinking that maybe Iras would change his mind and return with him if he found that he could not bear to live here.

'Lower your weapons,' Hephaistion commanded his men, who held their arms at the ready in case of a surprise attack. 'These people are terrified. I doubt it that anyone will attack us. But keep your eyes open.'

The men obeyed, albeit a little reluctantly.

'Tell them that we are not here to harm anyone,' he instructed the interpreter, who complied immediately, spreading his arms demonstratively and pointing to the soldiers' lowered weapons.

The panic subsided slowly and it was not long before faces began to appear in doorways and windows. Eventually, a party of several villagers made their way up the path to meet the foreigners. They were dressed simply yet their clothes were painted in rich colours and traditional symbols that Iras had shown Hephaistion were the marks of the tribe elders.

An old man approached them, his unsteady step supported by a younger man. He stared at them through rheumy eyes, half blind, for only one moment before Iras leaped off his horse and bowing, he touched his forehead to the old man's gnarled hands. Tears brimmed in his eyes as he lifted his head and silence befell both parties when the old man blinked in shock and recognition at once. Neither the four years Iras had been away nor the old man's near blindness prevented him from recognizing his own son.

The Greeks stood a little apart and Hephaistion saw how even his hardened soldiers were shaken by the reunion, no doubt thinking about their own loved ones that they had left behind.

Inside, Hephaistion's heart bled a little. He wished he could remember his own father, from whom he still received letters and to whom he replied dutifully, but whose face, after two years since the amnesia had struck him, was just as alien as always.

He watched as father and son fell into a desperate embrace and soon, the fear was forgotten and Iras was surrounded by his fellow villagers and the interpreter was busy answering on his behalf.

They were shocked to learn that he was mute now but they were even more astounded when Hephaistion signalled the men to start unloading the cargo they had brought. In addition to various supplies and what Iras had earned with his portrait work, Hephaistion had forced upon him a fair amount of gold, in spite of Iras' silent but nevertheless forceful protests. It had been the one time when Hephaistion was glad that Iras was unable to talk.

Having said their goodbyes the previous night, Hephaistion thought that it would be easier to part come the morning. But when Iras embraced him, clinging to him for a long time, Hephaistion felt his throat tightening uncomfortably and he felt as if he were letting go of the single part of his memory that had not been splintered by forgetfulness.

On the return trail, Hephaistion pushed his men hard and they made it back sooner than expected.

The need to exhaust himself over his limits often overcame Hephaistion especially when he wanted to exorcise one demon or another. It had happened often in the past two years and he had found that the joy with which he bounded head-first into his duties shielded his spirit from unnecessary torment.

He supposed he had always been hard-working, but he could not ignore the fair amount of good fortune. If he had to believe the tales he'd been told, or what he had pieced together himself, he'd had heaps of it in his life. To be loved the way he was by Alexander was certainly fortune that many had hoped for but none had attained. It did not sit well with most of their countrymen but Hephaistion had trained himself again to ignore it.

But of all the things he had been blessed with, the return of his memory was not one of them. After returning from captivity, he had spent entire days going in vain through his things, his letters, clothes and weapons. For all he remembered, they might as well have belonged to a dead stranger.

In the beginning, there had been denial and the firm belief that his memory would re-surface, slowly, a memory here and there. But nothing more came to him. Anger followed on the heels of denial but luckily for him, it had passed quickly and because he had forced himself to conceal his situation from everyone else. Slowly he had begun to accept that the damage to his memory could very well be permanent and that he had to either move on from there or sink into self-pity and doubt. It was enough most days.

On the night of his return, he dined with Alexander and the other generals, in spite of his wish for solitude. Alexander had insisted that he did not want Hephaistion to be alone and when the others left, Alexander beckoned him to stay behind.

'Well?' he said expectantly.

Hephaistion shrugged. 'I did the right thing. But it doesn't feel any better.'

'It never does, does it?'

Hephaistion nodded, smiling dourly at the irony of it.

'I didn't understand for a long time why you wanted to let him go back to his people. I thought his talent would be wasted there and that he could have done well for himself here,' Alexander said.

'He's free to return and he knows it. But he won't. I saw it when I left. He will make sure that his village prospers even though he might not be the leader that his brothers were. That forsaken place, forgotten by trade routes and merchants, will grow again, thanks to him.'

Alexander handed him a fresh goblet of wine and Hephaistion sat in a chair stretching his legs. Uncharacteristically, he tossed back the wine and reached out for the jug again.

'You still looked troubled,' Alexander said carefully.

'You should have seen it, Alexander,' Hephaistion said, seeing it all again in his mind's eye. 'They were so poor. Yet they feasted us with the best they had. Iras' father could not stop embracing his son, only to make sure that he was real. I get shivers just thinking about it. This man, old and almost blind, robbed of hope and convinced that his sons were all dead, couldn't believe his good fortune'

Hephaistion's voice was thick with emotion. 'I so wished I could remember my father and I tried to think how it would be if I – we – ever went back to….'

Crossly, Hephaistion hurled the goblet down and it hit the ground with a dull thud.

'Arghhh, I cannot think of it as home anymore!'

'Neither can I,' Alexander countered, his eyes shining with the raw grief he saw mirrored in Hephaistion, 'even if I can remember everything. And neither can any soldier that left with us.'

'I know,' Hephaistion said quietly. 'and I'm sorry to have brought this up now. I'm tired and I guess pitying myself would just about describe how I feel.'

'Actually, I'm glad you brought this up,' Alexander's eyes sparkled in a way that made Hephaistion instantly alert. He knew that look.

The King's manner was suddenly vivacious as he bounded over to a chest where he kept scrolls.

Hephaistion watched with mild interest. Sometimes, when his head was out of the clouds, Alexander had this uncanny sense of knowing exactly what to say or do to make one forget.

'I was planning to give this to you only on your birthday,' Alexander said matter-of-factly, 'but it looks like I'll just have to catch Bessos and give you his head on a platter instead.'

Hephaistion winced at Alexander's wanton generosity. 'No, thank you.'

The easy thoughts flew right out of his head when Alexander handed him a scroll. Before he even opened it, a premonition that something important was about to happen gave Hephaistion a dreaded weak-kneed feeling.

Inside, sketched with the precision and mastery of Iras' hand, were the portraits of a man and a woman. The middle-aged man bore an expression of strength and gentleness and the woman's soft light-eyes, so much like his own, stared longingly from the parchment and into Hephaistion's very core. His mouth went very dry and he struggled to bring forth the words.

'Is this…? Are they……?'

Alexander nodded slowly, a sad-joyful smile curling the corners of his mouth. He looked years younger when he did that.

'You did this for me? When?'

'Before Iras left,' Alexander explained patiently, 'I instructed him from my memory of your parents and he sketched many drafts before I was finally happy that the likeness was remarkable. I might have been a little inaccurate about your mother, because I only saw her once,' he apologized,' but your father looks exactly the way I remember him.'

Hephaistion felt suspended in time, his blood singing, warmed by something beyond hope, chilled by something beyond remembrance. That someone could love him enough to do this humbled him and made him soar at the same time. And when his thoughts were his own again, he stared from the images of his parents into Alexander's face in speechless wonder. It took him a while to realize that tears – overdue for two long years – trickled down his cheeks and fell free, becoming one with the parchment.

Winter was far from over when the news came that Bessos had been sighted, on the run with his much diminished army. It sent them all in a flurry of activity and preparation.

Weeks and months of pursuit had bled into nearly two years that Bessos had eluded Alexander. But relentless as the King was in everything he ever did, Hephaistion knew that the capture and defeat of Bessos was far more personal for Alexander than even he himself cared to admit. Yet in the grand scheme of things, Bessos was an enemy who had to be eliminated.

His armies having one by one deserted him, Bessos found himself alone and surrounded, like a once wild and powerful animal, now bereft of his protective flock and at the mercy of the hunters.

In the end, Alexander sent Ptolemy to capture Bessos, claiming that he would not dignify the rebellious satrap with his presence. The truth only Hephaistion knew: Alexander did not trust himself not to attack and murder Bessos, if only to satisfy his blood lust.

When Alexander finally rode up to inspect the newly imprisoned Bessos, Hephaistion saw the unconcealed look of satisfaction at the sight of the naked and tied man. He himself was not sure if he felt revulsion or contentment confronting the one who had once stood tall and brooding, exacting his terrible price for Iras' life and who now slumped under the yoke to which he was tied, his honour and rank stripped from him, his frame diminished and the pride in his features no more than a shadow of what it once was.

Even when he tried to parley with Alexander, claiming that he'd only had an insignificant part in Darius' murder, Hephaistion saw a look of unconcealed disgust spreading on Alexander's face.

'I was mistaken to ever think of you as a serious menace. For one who's made such threats about defeating me, you are a great disappointment,' he ultimately told Bessos, not even gracing him enough to speak his name and in spite of the calm words, Hephaistion noticed the restraint that his king was exercising upon himself. He watched Alexander's every reaction like a hawk.

And then, like a cobra spitting the last of its venom, Bessos glanced in Hephaistion's direction and sneered at Alexander, so that his words were for their ears alone.

'You might be disappointed, but know this: your pretty whore over here - all dressed up as a general now – _he_ didn't disappoint me. Or didn't he tell you how he squirmed in pleasure when I took him again and again? Who knows, maybe, secretly, he even yearned for my return..'

Bessos eyes glinted maniacally and Hephaistion understood why the Baktrian was egging Alexander on. He would not bear the shame of a public trial and he wanted Alexander to lose his temper and kill him on the spot.

Hephaistion placed his hand on Alexander's arm to steady him and to avert the display of his king's wrath. He was reasonably sure that no one else had heard Bessos mention what he'd done to him, but he would rather that the whole army knew about it than for Alexander to attack and mete out his punishment in full view of his men.

'Leave him be, Alexander,' he warned in a low tone. 'He's not worth the trouble.'

The killing blow never fell. Alexander stared at Bessos with cold fury spreading on his face and making him look beautiful and terrible all at once.

'I'll have you flogged for your insolence,' he said unemotionally, pausing to think for a moment before he passed the rest of the sentence. 'For your betrayal and killing of your king, you will be put on trial for treason and you will suffer the appropriate punishment.' His voice dropped lower when he leaned closer to Bessos. 'As for what you did to this man, and by extension to me, I wish upon you to live long enough to see yourself in the deepest of ruin. As the gods are my witness, I have never wished this upon anybody, but no one is more deserving of it than you.'

'You are too arrogant, Alexander,' Bessos portended, uttering the name as if it were cursed, yet the fear in his voice was plain to all present. 'Before long, you'll know that for you, even the world is not enough.'

Bessos' eyes turned to dead stones as Alexander signed for him to be led away.

That night, housed in one of the larger rooms that the fort could offer, Alexander looked more at ease than he had in months.

'Do you think I was too harsh?' he asked Hephaistion long after the hour of midnight had passed.

'He is a killer of kings and a rebel..' Hephaistion began, but Alexander interrupted.

'You know what I mean.'

Hephaistion sighed in frustration.

'I do not need anyone to make justice for me. Not even you, Alexander,' he said gently, like coaxing a stubborn child. 'What bargain I struck with him he honoured - he did not put Iras to a gruesome death. It's all in the past now, along with the bruises to my pride and my body.'

'So you say…' Alexander said.

It was no longer painful to Hephaistion, but more like the memory of a sickness that had come, threatened his life and then gone. What was painful was that sometimes Alexander felt the need to torment himself with it, as if enduring punishment for failing to protect him.

'So it IS – and please, for the love of Zeus, stop doing this to yourself. It's been two years.'

Alexander shook his head, a deep sigh rising from his chest and his eyes tired.

'I wanted to gouge his eyes out,' he said heatedly. 'All the while I spoke to him, I imagined him suffering the worst torments and that was the only thing that prevented me from gutting him right there.'

'I'm glad you didn't' Hephaistion said with unconcealed relief.

'But why should anyone care if I'm cruel for once in my life – and to a man that did nothing but harm to anyone who crossed his path? Look at Darius. Gods, look what he did to Iras, and to you. And to all those thousands who followed him and now lie dead or enslaved.'

Hephaistion could not fault Alexander's judgement, but he did not say so.

'And besides, Achilles had his revenge, why shouldn't I?' Alexander sounded petulant.

Opportunity unhoped for had raised its head and Hephaistion took it with both hands.

'Because, ' Hephaistion said slowly, trapping Alexander's palm between his own, 'for one thing, it is not in you to be cruel. For another, I am not dead. And last, Hector was a brave and noble man and Achilles knew it. Bessos is neither.'

Even as he spoke, Hephaistion's heart bled at the thought that Alexander could think, even for a moment, that his old Hephaistion was dead and thus felt that his revenge was justified.

'You don't need to blame him for anything else that happened. He is not responsible for my lost memory,' he added more as an assurance to himself rather than to Alexander.

But then again, maybe Bessos was to blame for the way their love took rough turns sometimes – even if it proved entirely pleasing – but most of all for Alexander's need to take another lover in Bagoas.

'It's over now,' Hephaistion said, wrapping Alexander in his arms and kissing him softly, feeling the tautness in Alexander's muscles subside somewhat. 'What we have left is what we must thank the gods for.'

'Indeed,' Alexander said thoughtfully, leaning into Hephaistion's embrace, 'it is time to move on. And what we have is good fortune. Though, how strange that even now I desire more than anything to press on, to see what lies beyond the next hill. Even when I know that all I ever wished for is right here. '

He disentangled himself from the embrace, albeit reluctantly, and entwined their fingers, pulling Hephaistion closer.

'You made my dream yours, Phai, once before and now again. Can you live like that?'

Hephaistion smiled, the weight of his divine burden glistening in his eyes. 'I think I knew what I was getting myself into. And besides, my dream was fulfilled a long time ago. What have we got to do now other than follow yours?'

'That might be true, but sometimes I find myself thinking of what a fool I am to be so blind to all that is so real. Do you think this arrogance will draw the gods' envy?'

'Who knows these things? They envy you because you shine so. They envy me because I hold your heart. Maybe this longing of yours _is_ their punishment.'

'Then we have it easy yet,' Alexander's smile was cheerless. 'For me, immortality would be a harsher punishment, if I had to spend it alone.'

Outside, the camp was already stirring with the first light of dawn. There would be packing and planning and bustle and in a few hours, they would be sitting in council with the generals, mapping out the new routes and setting the next objective There were cities to be built and new lands to discover.

The horizon awaited, infinite and tempting.

The End


End file.
